


A New Road

by Huehxolotl



Series: The Reflection That Almost Was [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, But first awkward teenage years for Lyse, Found Family, Gen, Pre-Calamity, Slowest of slow burn Lyse/Y'shtola, Yda survives THAT mission, because I said so, sister bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: Sequel to A Road Not TakenThe Hext and Rhul sisters continue to further their ambitions, becoming something better than friends along the way; they become a family. One by one, they make their way out of Sharlayan, eyes set firmly on the future.Eorzea and the empire have no idea what's coming for them.





	1. Sharlayan

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the second part! I hope you enjoy. This is mostly character building but I promise that Lyse/Y'shtola is endgame. Someday. They've got a bit of a windy path on the way there.

**1562 and 1563**

Being apart from Shtola is easier than she feared it would be. She has lived more of her life without Shtola Rhul than she has with her, and there are more than enough problems to keep her occupied after the move. The people of the Sharlayan motherland are even more stuck-up than those of the colony had been, something she never would have thought possible. Yda often comes home in a bad mood, annoyed with the people she shares classes with, or the people she has to serve at the library she now works at.

She peeks into the main room of their apartment, searching for her sister among the mess of books and papers on the table. Yda is resting her chin on her palm, free hand bouncing her pencil against the table forcefully. For her to be so mad hours after getting home, it must have been really bad at work.

Fidgeting, she takes a deep breath, steels her resolve, and continues her mission. Mhitra had said that Yda just needs some comfort, so that’s what she’s going to do, even if Yda needing comfort from her is a weird, uncomfortable idea. She is given a grunt when she places the hot chocolate on the table, but no denial, which is a good sign. Hesitating a moment, she enacts phase two and pushes Vochstein into her sister’s lap.

“I’m going to take a bath. Keep him company,” she orders before Yda can get a word in, retreating to her room faster than the time she ate the last chocolate cinnamon cookie.

After a lengthy bath, she checks on Yda again. Her sister is working, the tension in her shoulders gone, and her free arm hugging Vochstein, whose head moves back and forth as he watches Yda’s writing hand. Relieved, she hums while she makes herself some hot chocolate and grabs a pile of lemon cookies. She had really helped her sister feel better! Things may not be perfect, but nothing can hurt them if they have each other.

The end of the year comes and goes with little fanfare as her friends and family adapt to life in the Sharalyan Islands.

Personally, she has the easiest time adapting. The courses Louisoix Leveilleur enrolled her in are similar to the classes she had during the last few moons at the colony. With the influx of people into the islands, the teachers don’t give her much attention as long as she turns in her work packet and behaves in class. With all the tension between the old and new island residents, she is more than content to simply suffer through her lessons and escape to the community training yard once she is set free.

It doesn’t occur to her to try and make friends. The other children are either boring or mean. They aren’t interested in fistfighting, and don’t want to be around a “dirty refugee with the funny accent.” After a moon, she has given up on trying to win them over.

_“If someone continues to be rude no matter how nice you are, then they aren’t worth the effort.”_

Yda had told her that, once, after they had first arrived in the Sharlayan colony, and it is advice she lives by.

Physical training is, essentially, the same as it was before. She haunts the yard, spying on the warriors and making use of the equipment. The fighters are disparaging more often than not; they call her scrawny, debate using her for target practice, and laugh at her when she wants to spar.

But that treatment she is used to. Warriors are the same everywhere, and their behavior is almost comforting; something normal amongst so much newness.

She persists in her training, working out every morning before lessons and every afternoon after. Slowly, eventually, her presence becomes normal, and the regular fighters start casually giving her tips for improving her speed and strength, start allowing her to assist them in their training when possible. It isn’t ideal, but between the sennights that there is a traveling pugilist with the time to train her, it’s more than enough. She finds it interesting, anyway, seeing all the different ways people train, learning what is important to different types of fighters. That information will be useful someday, she is certain, so she does her best to remember everything she is taught.

It’s aether control lessons that give her the most trouble, that make her miss her friend all the more. Vochstein is a good tool, but she knows she needs more help than even her precious griffin can offer. Mhitra and Papalymo take up the task of getting her control up to par, but they are both busy, and their lessons are limited to the few bells a sennight that they are free. It’s a far cry from the three days a sennight that Shtola was able to dedicate to her, but she doesn’t bother them for more. Both scholars deserve time to rest, and she doesn’t want to intrude on their time. She makes up for the lack of personal training by taking the various tools Shtola had given her to her lessons, subtly working on her control whenever she has a spare moment to concentrate during the day.

It gets her in trouble with the teachers, and the other kids sometimes make fun of her for spacing out all the time, but she doesn’t care. _She_ knows that she’s training, and Shtola told her that there is no shame in bettering herself. Though she doesn’t think her friend will be impressed that she’s “bettering” herself during lessons. But who needs to know about old treaties anyway?

What she really fears is Shtola forgetting her; and who can blame her if she does? Shtola is _amazing_ , and she is just a scrawny kid that can’t channel aether properly. Even after all her work, she knows she is _years_ behind normal children when it comes to control. Yes, she has more aether than normal kids, and sure, she had a late start on proper control training, but she feels weak. Weak and useless when her friends, her _sister_ are anything but.

The thoughts are intrusive, sneaking up on her whenever she lets her mind wander for too long. Afraid to speak to Yda or Mhitra about her feelings, she takes to meditating with the crystal, taking comfort from the familiar aether that it is infused with.

All that fear dissipates when the first package from the traveling Archon arrives just before her nameday. She reads it to Vochstein excitedly, and when the door to the apartment opens, she is on her feet and tackling Yda in a hug before it can be closed again. Her sister grunts and complains loudly when the force of her hug pushes them into the door, closing it with a hard bang, but she is too busy laughing to care.

“She took my advice! She really did!”

Nonplussed, Yda grabs the letter that is being shoved into her face. She knows when Yda gets to _that_ part by the sharp laugh her sister lets out. In her mind, she recalls the letter -already memorized by heart- imagining Shtola’s voice reading it to her.

_‘...Limsa Lominsa pirates, true to their reputation, have proven to be stubborn and rude. Working with them is a taxing experience. I have, however, managed to earn the grudging respect of certain groups after several...public displays of strength. At the very least, any requests for information I make are no longer denied outright.’_

“I bet you anything writing that was the hardest thing she has ever done. I’m so telling Y’mhitra about that this.”

With the letter is a carved wooden ship in a glass bottle. The ship isn’t anything grand, but it captivates her _and_ Yda. It is intricately carved, and not only had the artist created an ocean inside the bottle, but it had been spelled so that the “water” glows at night, pulsing to mimic waves.

Within a moon, the side table that they place the ship on becomes an odd maritime scenery, complete with a lighthouse, fish tank, and a cheaply crafted Leviathan figure from one of the local festivals. The goldfish they now own -named Speedy- comes from the same festival. Won from one of the fishing games, he is the only occupant of the tank, but Yda refuses to get him a friend until she’s sure he’s going to live.

She’s partially offended, because how hard can it be to take care of a _fish_? It isn’t as though he’s going to grow or anything. Then Mhitra brings them a bigger tank, commenting that Speedy will need more space if he is to become large enough to serve as more than a snack.

It’s a joke. She thinks. But that doesn’t stop her from carefully watching over her new pet whenever Mhitra visits.

The end of the year comes quickly after that, her spirits bolstered by the letter. She trains whenever she has a spare moment, because there’s no way she can laze around when Shtola is out there risking her life and fighting evil. She’ll get stronger, and maybe someday she will help Shtola and Yda and Papalymo.

No. _Definitely_ someday. Once she stops tripping over her own feet.

**1564**

_“What do you think about getting a house?”_

Five moons into the year is when Y’mhitra first proposes buying a small house in the quieter northern parts of the island. She doesn’t give the proposal a whole lot of thought. She listens to the reasons Y’mhitra outlines, throws in some suggestions for the hypothetical situation, debates what essential features the house should have -a library, rooms for all three of them, enough yard space to let them train uninterrupted- then forgets about it as lessons and exams demanded her undivided attention.

When Y’mhitra returns less than a sennight later to drag her out to investigate a list of potential houses that she has compiled, she realizes that oh, maybe that had _not_ been a hypothetical situation and this is actually happening. She is still processing the situation when she sits Lyse down that night and informs her that they will be moving next moon, and Y’mhitra will be living with them.

Her baby sister, of course, considers the news to be the greatest nameday gift ever.

She is initially worried about the timing, for she is in the middle of a veritable marathon of exams and lectures, and can barely find the time to breathe, much less pack. There’s no taking time off of work either, if she wants to afford this move. Though she has been saving money for _eventually_ buying a house, and Y’mhitra is covering half the cost, the house they have chosen will cost everything in her savings and then some. She needs all the work that she can get, however much of a toll it takes on her.

Her worries in regards to packing prove to be in vain; Lyse single-handedly has their apartment fully packed and ready to go the sennight before the move. The guilt that she carries for not spending time with her sister is compounded when she comes home to piles of boxes labeled with the sloppy scrawl that passes for Lyse’s handwriting, and the girl in question napping on the couch, exhausted from the work.

She makes it up to her the only way she knows how; by bringing home food from the local stands every night for the rest of the sennight.

The move is easier than she expects. They take a day to transport their furniture and boxes, and another to handle Y’mhitra’s. Papalymo and the other refugees she enlists -orders- to help them have the house set up in no time. With three upstairs bedrooms, a main kitchen/dining floor, and an entire cellar turned into a studying space, the house is bigger than anything she has ever lived in. Even in Ala Mhigo her home had been small; only one floor and two bedrooms for the four of them.

Lyse is suitably enamored with their new yard space, the view from the balcony, and the idea of having her own room. _She_ is more relieved that she will be able to come home from late nights at work without waking her baby sister. Lyse hardly ever complains, of course, but the kid is in the middle of another growth spurt, and she needs all the sleep she can get.

And, truth be told, she hasn’t had her own room since Lyse was born. As -lowkey- excited about having a room as she is, the first sennight finds her uncomfortable at the emptiness and stillness of the nights. Her eyes instinctively stray to the empty corner where Lyse’s bed should be, a feeling that resembles loss sneaking into her heart.

There is nothing to be done about it but shake her head and force the emotion away. Loss? She has no right to be depressed that Lyse is growing more independent. Not when it’s her own damn fault that her sister grew up too fast, that her sister learned to take care of herself before her tenth nameday while she was off studying, working, and helping their fellow refugees.

The biggest adjustment to their new housing situation, other than her new empty room, is living with another adult. Sure, she spends most of her time around Papalymo when she isn’t working, but “home” has always just been her, Lyse, and the silence that used to stand between them. Now, there’s someone else -someone older and _nicer_ \- that can help Lyse with her work packets, or make meals, or bring home desserts on rest days. Someone who masterfully breaches the silence that had become the norm without her noticing.

Mhitra -as she has been ordered to call their friend and housemate- often studies late into the night, and once the initial awkwardness of sharing a house has passed, she finds that having an adult to share her troubles with at the end of the day is...relaxing. There are some things that she just cannot tell Lyse, who isn’t old enough to understand, and things that she doesn’t _want_ to share with Papalymo, however much she trusts him.

If she finds it odd that she apparently trusts Mhitra more than Papalymo, well, she blames it on Mhitra’s easy going personality. It isn’t as though Lyse and Papalymo are the two people she wants to impress the most or anything. She just likes having another woman to talk to about the subtle discrimination she deals with, her need to reclaim her home, and her growing disdain for the cowards that make up the Sharlayan Forum.

“I wish I were joking, but I seriously think Lyse stashes those letters under her pillow,” she grumbles into her steaming hot chocolate. The cellar is freezing; not even her thick bird-patterned blanket is enough to ward off the chill. Having a fireplace does them no good when none of them arrive home early enough to light it before the cold sets in. Tucking her feet underneath her legs, she shakes her head at Mhitra and sighs. “Having a crush is all well and good, but I hope she isn’t placing your sister on pedestal.”

“Indeed. It’s quite difficult as it is, coaxing her to take _you_ off of one,” Mhitra says despairingly, though her distress may be more at her lack of progress in translating the book she has been slaving over for the last few sennights than at Lyse’s hero worship of Y’shtola Rhul.

And her, if this claim is true.

“Huh? Me? She doesn’t-”

Mhitra gives her a _look_ , halting her rambling and forcing her to frown at the floor. Sure, Lyse seems confident in her strength. That’s understandable. She’s the older sister. That’s how it’s supposed to work, isn’t it? If she accepts all her claims of someday freeing Ala Mhigo without a hint of doubt, that’s. That’s normal. Lyse is an optimist at heart. There’s no way her baby sister worships her like she does Y’shtola.

Y’shtola can do no wrong, in Lyse’s eyes. Not like her. She can…no, she _has_ done a lot of wrong, but Lyse has never actually...said that, has never confronted her. Hasn’t Papalymo once or twice -or several times- mentioned that Lyse would forgive her anything? Would believe anything she tells her?

Objectively speaking, that does sound an awful lot like hero worship.

“Oh,” she says blankly.

Mhitra smiles at her. “We’ll work on it. Now, you are free tomorrow night, are you not? I require moving targets.”

Well that isn’t a suspicious statement in the least. “...I am if we eat out.”

“Your terms are acceptable.”

“...And if you carry Lyse to bed next time she falls asleep downstairs?”

“I think not.”

“Ugh. Worth a shot.”

Convincing Lyse that she is just a normal human turns out to involve more work than she thought it would.

Being “human,” Mhitra insists, means _talking_ to her sister. Easy enough, except that the first time she tries to show interest in Lyse’s schooling, her sister answers with wide eyes and visible confusion, deflecting the conversation to another topic before running off with the claim that she needs to work with Vochstein, who now is capable of walking of its own accord.

Papalymo laughs at her when she complains about it, proclaiming that Lyse likely thinks something is wrong with her for the sudden change in character. She scowls at him, but admits to herself that he has a point. When she really thinks about it, she knows nothing of her sister beyond her hero worship of Y’shtola and the occasional grumble about the training she receives at the yard. Patience, he advises, is all she needs.

Patience and persistence. Only one of those things is something she does well, and it isn’t the first one.

She learns two things over the next few moons; Lyse is very skilled at talking a lot without saying anything about herself, and she has never shared her own struggles with her sister. She has been too determined to be strong for her, to pretend that she is always fine -to pretend that she isn't scarred by the loss of their parents and home- and correcting her attitude is not so simple as telling herself to do so. More often than not, she finds herself at a loss for words. The once unbreakable silence between them doesn’t lessen, only turns into awkward attempts at conversation and even less comfortable pauses when neither knows how to proceed.

It isn’t easy, no, but she has Mhitra and Papalymo to help her, and she knows they’ll be fine eventually. All they need is time, and a constant supply of lemon frosted cookies to bribe an unsuspecting Lyse into sitting still for an entire conversation.

The year ends with a slightly less skittish Lyse, her final year at the Studium starting, and the news that Y’shtola will be making a trip to Sharlayan.

“We have to get her favorite food! Does she have a favorite food? We’ll get fish! Lots of fish!”

“I’m _not_ eating fish for sennights on end. That's disgusting.”

“Ah! Where is she going to sleep?”

“The cou-”

“NO. She can sleep in my room. I’ll sleep with you, okay Yda? Do you think she wants a fluffier pillow? Oh! We don’t have a blanket for her!”

She crosses her arms on the table and watches Lyse pace in the kitchen. Lyse’s panic had only been funny for the first bell; now she just wants to knock her sister out. ...That's a tempting thought. It would be doing both of them a favor, really. “We _have_ blankets. Plenty of blankets.”

“She needs her own! Something pretty and soft! Like her!”

Groaning, she drops her head into her arms and tries to contain her irritation. ‘ _By Rhalgr, is it going to be a long_ _moon._ ’


	2. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharlayan was only ever meant to be a pit-stop for the Hext family, and, slowly, fate begins to drag them away from the city that sheltered them.

**1565**

The sennights before Shtola’s stay in Sharlayan pass quickly for all except Lyse, who vacillates between excitement and anxiety at any given moment. Yda, in turn, is both amused and jealous of the reaction at any given moment. The Hext sisters may have markedly improved their relationship over the last several moons, but her own sister's coming visit has stolen all of Lyse's attention and ability to concentrate, leaving Yda to quietly complain about Lyse’s breathtaking ability to focus on a single subject.

Lyse, requiring an outlet for her anxiety, decides that she needs to keep herself occupied at all times in lieu of giving herself time to think. Which, they discover one night, means pushing her physical training to ridiculous levels. Carrying the girl up to bed after finding her passed out on the couch turns into a nightly routine for her and Yda; one that she isn't all that fond of.

Needless to say, she is relieved to finally see her sister for more than one reason.

“Thank the gods. She's far too heavy to carry upstairs every night.”

Shtola pulls away from the hug, confused by the odd greeting. “I am glad to see you as well, sister?” she says, gaze and tone questioning.

“Oh. Of course, I am heartened that you have returned to us safely.”

“...Clearly.”

Shtola is given leave to rest for the duration of her visit after delivering her latest report, which allows them to take a long tour of the island that they have settled on. The Sharlayan mainland consists of several islands, with the largest housing the Studium and main city. She has not had time to take a thorough look around the islands, and their tour is doubly enjoyable as they both discover several book and oddity stores that require future revisits.

Their initial plan had been to let Shtola settle in at the house before everyone finished work and lessons, but they lose track of time surprisingly easily. The five moons before the move had not been enough time to grow weary of each other, had not been enough time to breed a familiarity that can survive more years of separation. There is much to speak of, much to learn of each other once again.

She marvels at how much Shtola has both matured yet remained unchanged as they linger near the entrance to Lyse’s school, joining the scattered ranks of parents that eagerly -or not- await the end of the school’s formal lessons. The infallible confidence that had been present before her ascension into the Archon ranks has not dimmed, and her tongue has not been tempered in the least. But there is also tension in her shoulders, her gaze lingers in the crowd as she unconsciously scans for threats, and a particularly rude patron at the food stand they stopped at earned himself a deserved yet borderline cruel criticism.

Never had she imagined that Shtola’s travels would be free of trouble, but she wishes -not for the first time- that her sister were at least sociable enough to tolerate working with a partner.

The school’s bell interrupts their chatter to announce that the children are now, for better or worse, free from their lessons. The immediate flood of children running past them in packs large and small has them both cringing. Neither of them have much experience dealing with groups of children, and neither do they much enjoy it. While she has been offered opportunities to teach pre-Studium courses, her peers are childish enough to put her off the idea of teaching in any capacity, much less teaching young children.

It is when the crowd thins, the noise levels return to normal, and she begins to doubt that they have the right building -she has only been here once- that Lyse bounds out of the entrance, almost tripping over herself when she spots them. She praises her own foresight in insisting she carry their food when Shtola is immediately treated to Lyse’s violently enthusiastic brand of hug.

“You’re here! But what are you doing _here_ here?!”

“Oof. Lyse. I do believe you have become too strong for that type of greeting,” Shtola coughs out, voice pained.

Lyse frowns up at her -though they are very nearly the same height now- and says petulantly, “I wouldn’t be too strong for you if you were doing your strength exercises like you’re _supposed_ to.”

The chagrined sigh her sister responds with causes her to laugh. Of all the ways she expected their meeting to go, never did she consider a scenario where Shtola, Archon and skilled mage, would be _scolded_ by the precocious twelve year old.

After sharing a meal with the child at a nearby park, they convince her to attend to her training while Shtola rests before dinner. Lyse runs off without fussing as much as they expect, mumbling something about having missions to run and sweet bread, which they puzzle over as they wind their way through the city streets into the North side.

Yda -with Papalymo in tow- makes it home well before Lyse does, allowing her to re-experience the joy that is watching Yda and Shtola awkwardly interact. They may have come to a mutual understanding that neither means Lyse any harm, but Shtola is naturally sharp-tongued, and Yda cannot help but rise to the challenge. After half a bell of bickering, Vochstein becomes the chosen “safe” topic. Once the now fully animated plush is caught, they bring him down to the warmth of the library for examination.

Much like its owner, the griffin does not take an abundance of attention well. It huddles against Shtola’s stomach for safety, glowing eyes flitting between them -the perceived threat- and the edge of the table it is ready to jump off of.

“Seriously? After years of trying, I can barely get the bloody thing to listen to me, and yet he runs to _you_ for help?”

Shtola, amused at Yda’s complaint, soothes Vochstein with a stroke along his back and small burst of aether. “He is attuned specifically to my aether, for the purpose of monitoring their progress, making any needed adjustments to his thresholds, and general upkeep of his spells. Regardless of how his personality evolves, he will always obey either Lyse or myself.”

“In short, you’re his mother,” Papalymo summarizes with a playful smirk. “One of them, at any rate.”

“So wait,” Yda says, a tinge of horror in her voice. “He isn’t fully activated yet? What’s he going to do next? _Fly_?”

Sparing a glare for Papalymo, her sister shrugs and says, “As far as I can observe, she has activated roughly half of his features. Her control has improved exponentially, these last few moons. And no, the milestone she is closest to completing is activating the fourth layer of spells. It seems his personality will advance, he will become more aware of the world at large, and he will gain use of his voice.”

Yda becomes progressively more horrified as Shtola lists off the unactivated features in the griffin. “Gods have mercy, it’s going to talk,” she mumbles, shuddering.

“From her rate of progress, however,” Shtola continues clinically, “I will be surprised if she _doesn’t_ have flight unlocked by her nameday at the latest. Although, again, I cannot be sure. Matoya spelled him to be as much of a training tool for _me_ as it is for Lyse.”

“Fly? It's actually going to fly?”

Chuckling sympathetically, she pats Yda’s shoulder as she mopes. Vochstein will occasionally allow the older Hext to hold him, but he is more likely to be found running between her legs, attempting to climb atop her books as she is working, or stealing away her shoes in the morning. They had once thought that the griffin was simply seeking attention, but whenever Yda attempts to play with him, he runs under Lyse’s bed and refuses to reappear.

She is not spared his mischievous antics herself, but she has created several methods for distracting the plush, earning its favor and the protection of her personal belongings.

“Let’s keep that information amongst ourselves, shall we?”

Yda and Papalymo nod emphatically at her suggestion. If Lyse knows that Vochstein is capable of flight, she will do her utmost to unlock that feature as soon as possible, and none of them are prepared to endure either her inevitable hyperfocus _or_ her excitement when she unlocks that stage.

The door opening on the main floor startles them all into freezing not unlike the griffin. They wait for a call, or the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but there is nothing for several moments, until, just when they consider searching for the girl, they hear her _ascend_ the stairs. What truly breaks the tension, however, is when Vochstein abruptly leaps off the table so that he may chase his master.

Catching him midair, Shtola sighs and fixes the plush with a stern look. “I am not yet finished with you. We will go to her after your examination.”

The look the griffin gives her sister is equal parts chastened and saddened, a true accomplishment considering he is not capable of facial expressions. She can’t imagine how difficult it will be to deny the griffin attention once his voice is unlocked, if all it takes is now is a drooping of wings and head to rouse her sympathy.

Three sennights pass in a heartbeat for the group. Shtola keeps herself occupied with research, training with Lyse -who has foregone some of her time at the yard- or simply spending time with their clan members. Ever at her side is Vochstein, the plush intent on following her every movement when Lyse is unreachable or Yda is not around to torment. He is, judging by the trinkets that now decorate his ears and tail, quite popular among the other members of their clan.

Her work and research continue to dominate her own time, but she does her utmost to arrive home early every night. Shtola’s presence is a glimpse into a happy, carefree life that will never come to be. Scenes such as Shtola and Lyse baking snacks, or Shtola and Yda attempting to argue while _pretending_ that they are not arguing -for Lyse’s sake- or all of them lounging in the library working as Vochstein bounds between them are treasured moments that she savors.

The fear that those moments will never see a repeat grows as Shtola continues her travels, and Yda readies herself to follow before the year is out. The house will be much quieter with only Lyse, Vochstein, and herself present, and part of her is already dreading their future. She had adapted to their family unit in spite of herself, in spite of her repeatedly forcing herself to remember that it was only ever meant to be temporary.

Perhaps that’s why, less than a moon after Shtola leaves, she develops a habit of pulling out a map and finding the locales that her sister has mentioned over the years, tracing them slowly as she tries to picture the beaches, forests, deserts, and mountains of Eorzea. Wanderlust is a proclivity of the Miqo’te kind that she had never been tempted to indulge in, but she admits that Shtola’s stories have peaked her curiosity. Faced with the fact that her family unit will leave Sharlayan in the not so distant future -for Lyse is certain to chase after the two she admires most- she wants to study more of the continent she had been born and raised on yet never was a part of. With every letter, every subsequent visit from her sister -which are suddenly quite frequent, if very brief- that urge grows.

Eventually, she promises herself as Yda’s graduation draws closer, eventually she will venture out into Eorzea, but it is not yet time, and her work is more than enough to keep her satisfied.

“Lyse...are you making soup? It’s far too warm for that.”

The girl smiles at her self-consciously as she chops up a lemon. Next to her is a small pile of freshly chopped herbs, their familiar smell tickling at her senses. “Shtola came home today, and has a really bad headache. I covered my windows so she can rest in my room, but I thought she might like some of that weird soup you like. You add all this stuff to it, right? I think she might have a cold.”

Nodding, she smiles wryly and says, “Wise of you to take the initiative. She’ll certainly never admit to being sick of her _own_ accord. To be on the safe side, I have some medicine we can add. Now, how long has the water been heating up? We do not want it to fully boil, for those herbs are sensitive. And we may as well make some tea, while we’re at it.”

As she teaches Lyse the art of making tea, as they conspire against Shtola -for the sake of her own health- she decides that, first and foremost, her family needs a home to return to; one that Lyse and her will ensure remains warm.

**1566**

“Well I’ll be damned. Hahette Prusair, alive and in the flesh. I thought you’d have drowned by now.”

Laughing, she waves a hand at Carl, owner of the public training center and an old family friend. “Oh, I assure you, the sea tried its best to see it so on the way here, but alas, I must disappoint both you and that mercurial maiden that is the ocean. I live to fight another day.”

Carl rolls his eyes so hard she fears he will go blind, and readies himself to deliver a doubtlessly scathing retort, but is distracted from their conversation by a scuffle out in the yard. Glaring in the direction of the commotion, he growls at her to not break any equipment before he stomps off, the names of the offenders booming off the walls as he makes his ire known. Whistling, she reaches behind the counter to grab a key to one of the private training rooms. Catching up with the old man can wait. She has a new blade that deserves her attention.

“You’re new here.”

She blinks and looks around. Seeing nothing, she looks _down_. A scrawny kid with long, blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck and eyes the color of the sea on a sunny day is staring up at her.

“To be more precise, _you_ are new and I am old.”

The kid frowns, crosses her arms, and squints at her. “You don’t _look_ old. Unless...you’re using magic?”

“An old _patron_ , kid,” she says patiently. Dealing with children isn’t her forte, but the kid gave her compliment, in a manner of speaking, so she tries to remain pleasant.

“Oh! That makes more sense. Okay.”

And then the girl skips away to the training yard, satisfied with her answer.

“...Well. That was odd.” Shrugging off the random encounter, she retreats to the private room before anyone else can think to stop her. Though most of the warriors that frequent Carl’s yard are drifters that spend their life traveling, there are a handful who might recognize her, and she isn't in the mood to socialize.

A mood that two bells of training with her wonderful new acquisition cures her of. She had found the sword in some ruins that had seen some cult activity, and when the local conjurers could not give her a definitive description of its capabilities -only that they determined it safe to use without aether- she thought it time to return home. Sharlayan may be isolated and insular, but there is no better place to find scholars of esoteric knowledge.

“Nice toy. Where’d you find it?” Carl, lounging behind the main desk, asks when she strolls out of the hallway.

“Upper La Noscea. I wanted to play with it before I handed it over for examination.” She scowls at the thought and adds, “You know the scholars here have no concept of time. I’ll be lucky if they return it in two moons.”

“Hey! I know those squiggles! You should ask Mhitra what they mean!”

Jumping half a fulm into the air and cursing all the gods known to man and beast, she snarls, “Where in the _seven hells_ did you come from?!”

The girl from earlier blinks innocently and gestures vaguely in the direction of the yard as Carl doubles over in laughter. “Over there?”

Taking a deep, calming breath, she closes her eyes and says through gritted teeth, “Whatever. Forget it. Anyway. This sword here is a relic of an ancient time, and to decipher these runes without triggering any untoward spells requires a mastership and several years of studying beside.”

“Mhitra _is_ a master. I’ll ask her to take a look for you at dinner since you’re Carl’s friend, okay? It’ll be faster than asking any _other_ scholar. Are you going to be here tomorrow? See you then!”

And then the kid disappears.

“What kind of demon stray have you taken in?” she grumbles at Carl after his laughter has died down and her heartbeat is nearly back to normal.

Carl is quick to assure her of the kid’s abilities, strength, and good character. The old man doesn’t often train kids -he doesn’t have the patience to deal with them either- so that he allows the girl to hang around as often as he claims is a miracle in and of itself. She admits to being curious; both at the claims of the girls skills and at his description of her often explosive experiments in channeling aether. The kid sounds like nothing but trouble, honestly.

Still, just because the kid is, in Carl’s words, an odd but genuine martial arts prodigy doesn’t mean she has access to a true master. Remaining skeptical, she debates showing up the next day right up to the moment she is once again standing at the entrance of the hall.

Her decision is made for her before she can walk in.

“You’re here! And you have the sword! That’s good. Mhitra’s at her office, but we can meet her there. Come on!”

Briefly, she considers ignoring the kid, but she’s just interested enough to put aside her doubts and follow her through the busy streets of the main island. Several stall attendants shout greetings to the girl, who treats them to a large grin and wave. Most of the food vendors in particular, she notices, are on a first name basis with the girl, whose name she determines to be Lyse.

“Hey, kid. As I have several issues with you dragging adult strangers to mysterious places, I think we ought to introduce ourselves,” she says when they reach the ornate gates of the Studium.

Lyse laughs nervously and scratches her neck. “Oh, yeah. I’m Lyse Hext. We’re going to see my sort of sister Y’mhitra Rhul. Technically she focuses her studies on Allagan history, but she studies all kinds of other old civilizations.”

“Hahette Prusair. I’m a traveling hunter-scholar.”

That peaks the girl’s interest, and she spends the rest of the walk peppering her with questions about her travels. Only their arrival at a nondescript, unlabeled door halts the interrogation, which Lyse enters without knocking.

“Hi Mhitra!” she exclaims happily, shattering the peace of the small room. “I brought Carl’s friend with the neat sword! Have you eaten today? I brought snacks.”

Y’mhitra Rhul turns out to be a beautiful Miqo’te with long, white hair, bright teal eyes and red marks on her cheeks such as all Miqo’te bear. She takes the intrusion in stride, welcoming them both with a patient, genuine, smile. “The snacks are appreciated, Lyse. Our meeting ran late again. We were released less than half a bell ago, and I haven’t had time to acquire food.”

Running a hand through her messy shoulder length hair -the sole casualty of her last mission had been her previously waist length hair- she bites back her first instinct to flirt. With her shiny new weapon on the line, professionalism is the way to go. Her attempts, however, to insist that she can return at a later time are ignored as Lyse grumbles about dumb scholars while serving them snacks.

“Goodness, Lyse. These were meant for the house, not for your school lunch. And you certainly did _not_ need the entire package!”

“I didn’t take them to lessons! I went home right after school! ...Because I forgot my training clothes.”

Y’mhitra Rhul, she discovers, is kind, graceful, and affectionately teasing; a truly rare species of scholar. So taken by the woman, she forgets about her true purpose for meeting Rhul until the snacks -which apparently were the _entire_ contents of her backpack- are finished and Lyse declares it time to investigate the weapon.

“T’is a relic of Amdapor,” Rhul says without hesitation. Holding her hand above the weapon, she -to her horror- casually channels aether into the runes, the entire sword lighting up. Instinctively bracing for a negative reaction, she is relieved when glowing is all the sword does. “Named “Darklight” for the mercenary group that first rediscovered them, they were once given to distinguished war leaders, though not with any consistency. The prevailing theory is that there existed several conditions to fulfill in order to be granted the honor of a Darklight weapon, but we have, as yet, found no literature that hints at what those conditions might be. Most of the weapons were lost in the War of the Magi and subsequent Calamity. The few we _have_ found, however, have never been successfully activated. Perhaps the knowledge was so commonplace that none felt the need to record it.”

The kid and her both lean toward the weapon and sigh in disappointment. They had both hoped for something slightly more interesting than “we don’t know how it works.”

“The passive runes are, as you can see, quite functional. They protect the blade from destruction at the hands of time, provide the bearer some resistance to black magic, and boost the potency of white magic.” Letting her hand fall, Rhul smiles at her reassuringly, and she tries not to blush at the attention. Gods above. Since when does a mere _smile_ from a beautiful woman make her bashful? Perhaps there had been something strange in the food...

“Those basic functions alone make the weapon valuable,” Rhul continues, unaware of her struggle to remain unaffected. “As it has not yet rejected you as a potential bearer, I would suggest you take full advantage of it. There are few who can hold such a weapon without painful backlash.”

While not the most encouraging analysis, it is more than she expected to receive this day. With all the information she has been given, there is no need to bother submitting it to other scholars. Rhul clearly knows what she’s talking about, _and_ she isn’t insisting the weapon be handed over to curators. Getting out of Sharlayan with both decent information _and_ her weapon in hand is a boon she shan’t question.

“So it’s picky,” Lyse mutters. “Like Vochstein!” Then, without warning, she pokes the sword while channelling aether into her hand.

There is a blinding flash and a yelp. Horrified, with visions of spells backlashing and traps triggering, she grabs the girl and pulls her out of reach of the weapon, holding her up as everyone’s vision clears. Breathlessly, she waits for more danger.

“ _What have I said about touching ancient items with mysterious runes_?!” Rhul chastises sternly, ears lowered as she rubs her eyes.

“Don’t?” Lyse says innocently. “It didn’t hurt! I mean, it surprised me, but it only made my arm tingle. Like I fell asleep on it.”

Rhul and her share a longsuffering look. Putting the kid down, she says sternly, “No more touching.”

She doesn’t linger much longer, leaving with an earnest thanks and a promise to report hidden traits of her weapon, should she discover any.

The next time she finds Lyse at Carl’s place, she grabs the kid by the collar and carries her out to the training yard before she can finish her enthusiastic greeting. “Since you saved me at least two moons of waiting, I’m going to watch over your training until I take my leave of the islands. Now let us find the cause of these explosions of yours.”

Two moons. Three at most. That’s what she promises the kid and her family.

Seven sees her a regular guest at the Rhul-Hext household, buried under pedantic tomes concerning Amdapor and Mhachi history, errand-runner for Y’mhitra -who is _all too gleeful_ to make use of her abundance of free time- or favorite target of the accursed griffin. How and _why_ Y’mhitra had taught the damned thing to use wind-aspected skills, she will never understand. Or appreciate.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Not even for a _little_?”

“No.”

“But it’s healing!”

“Y’mhitra said no training, so. _No. Training_. She frightens me more than you do.”

Lyse scowls and mutters petulantly, “You just have a crush on her.”

The book in her hand is promptly thrown at the brat, who yelps when it hits her on the forehead. “If you can’t dodge that, then you aren’t healed enough for training,” she growls murderously. “You’re the _last_ person I want to hear talking about crushes, when you count the days between Y’shtola’s visits religiously.”

“I do not,” Lyse whispers mutinously. Then, groaning, she flops onto her back, whimpering when her injured arm is jostled by the movement. Vochstein chirps in concern, moving from his favored spot in front of the fireplace to curl up under his master’s uninjured arm and rest his head on her stomach.

Teenagers. Honestly.

“You two are the most dramatic pair I’ve ever encountered,” she says tonelessly. “You better learn to appreciate rest. You won’t be getting much of it once we’re out in Eorzea.”

“Hmph. ...Wait. We?” Lyse asks hesitantly.

She doesn’t look away from the new book she is examining, but she smiles at the question. “Leveilleur’s group isn’t your place. You’ve said it yourself, and you aren’t wrong. You need a different sort of experience, and I think I have a plan that suits us both.”

Lyse spends the rest of the night trying to get more information out of her, but she stubbornly refuses. She doesn’t want to give the girl too much hope, in the event that her plan -which will take years to execute- fails. Right now, she just needs Lyse to be motivated, and, judging by the fire in her eyes, she has succeeded in that endeavor.

“Have you told Mhitra?”

“No.”

At that precise moment, they hear the front door close. There is a tense moment where student and master stare at each other, watching for the other’s reaction. She blinks, breaking the stalemate, and before she can say a word, Lyse is scrambling up the stairs, Vochstein in her uninjured arm. “MHITRA! Hahette says I’m gonna travel with her!”

“ _Lyse_!”

“She what?”

It’s a sulking Lyse -she never managed to draw more details of the plan out of her- that sees her off a moon and a half later. She pays her little mind; the girl will recover her spirits easily enough, what with Y’shtola Rhul soon to be home for a sennight.

No, it’s Y’mhitra that has all of her attention; and _not_ because she has a gods damned crush on the woman.

“Do try not to be _too_ reckless,” Y’mhitra says softly, ensuring that Lyse cannot hear them. Not that it’s a concern, as the girl is currently conversing with a group of sailors, who are pleased at having an audience for their questionable tales of spirits and superstitions. “While I understand your need to build a reputation, it will do you no good if you are killed in the process.”

“Have some faith, Y’mhitra. Do you truly think me to be as reckless as Y’shtola or Yda?” Sighing in mock disappointment, she rests a hand on Y’mhitra’s shoulder and squeezes lightly. “I’ve some reliable recruits lined up already. We’ll not take unnecessary risks until we establish ourselves, have no fear. It’s finding a place to live that will be my biggest challenge. If you want, I’ll keep an eye out for you as well.” When she is given a startled look, she smirks and says, “I’ve seen your eyes lingering on your maps. I know wanderlust when I see it.”

Y’mhitra stares out into the ocean, gaze distant. Is she imagining Eorzea? The secrets of history hidden there? Or the family she has there? “I am not ready for that. Not yet.”

“Perhaps, but isn’t it you that insists one can never have too much information?” she asks teasingly.

That draws a grin out of the scholar. “Wise words. Oh, very well. In that case, I shall look forward to your reports, Hahette.”

Smiling at each other, she wonders if this is a _Moment._

Of course, Lyse chooses that precise moment to appear out of thin air. “Have _you_ ever seen a ghost?! They’re real, right? Do you think-why are you blushing?”

_Gods damn that kid and her terrible timing!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random OC! Who is actually from the first version of this story that I wrote, except she died off-screen and was only ever mentioned in flashbacks. BUT. I needed a way to get Lyse away from Sharlayan that didn't involve the Circle of Knowing. So I stole and revived poor unlucky Hahette. ...I hadn't intended to give her a whole POV section, but characters will do what they will. It's nice to have an outside perspective on how our Hext and Rhul women interact, anyway.
> 
> Anyway! If you're curious about the story, headcanons, or my ideas for future fics, don't be shy!


	3. Upgrades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyse finally makes it to Eorzea, but like every move, it's going to take some time to adjust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter! Now that I finally have the second Eorzea encyclopedia, some of Lyse and Yda's background is now AU! So. Yay. ;_;
> 
> Good thing this is mostly AU anyway, but still. It would have been nice to know before I started writing all this.

**1568**

**__** _The Mist ward 5 plot 30_

The letter she receives is cryptic. The sender forewent an envelope, settling for a plain paper folded in half. It isn’t a scrawl -and that is indeed the best way to describe the penmanship- she recognizes. There are no other words or markings on the paper. She would have been inclined to ignore it all together had she not found the message in her inn room, sitting neatly on her pillow.

Strolling through the pristine paths of the Mist housing ward, she muses on all the possible troubles that await her. If it is meant to be an attack or ambush, the location of choice is a strange and recklessly bold one. There are too many witnesses, too few places that provide privacy. Neither does the locale scream “secret society.” At least, not the sort that tends to gather in Vylbrand, home of pirates, smugglers, and all other related manner of degenerates.

When she comes within sight of the noted location itself, she has even less of an idea of the context of the note. The house is one of the medium builds, so new that the paint all but sparkles like the sea it overlooks. Nestled in the corner of the ward, its only neighbors are the beach, the cliffs, and the stairs leading to it. As she reaches the gate of the house, she takes note of the boxes piled by the door, the training dummies installed to the side, and the clean chocobo stable.

The owner, whoever it is, is certainly well off. Her mental list of suspects narrows, but it matters not, for the moment she steps past the gate she hears a familiar chirping, and then a white blur flies at her from the second story window.

Bracing herself, she allows Vochstein to hit her with a viciousness that rivals Lyse’s hugs. “Hello, you,” she says fondly, mentally thanking her younger self for acquiring such a soft plush for the ten year old Lyse.

Vochstein purrs his greeting, rubbing her cheek with his head affectionately and nestling in her arms.

“Shtola!”

Looking up at the window that Vochstein had flown out of, she is treated to the sight of a grinning Lyse, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, and blue streaks of paint on her cheek.

She is halfway through her greeting when her friend jumps out of the window with reckless abandon. Words dying on her tongue, she sighs and waits patiently for yet another violent hug. As long as it has been since she has visited Sharlayan, she supposes that they both are allowed to be as unrestrained in their greetings as they desire.

The hug and welcome she receives is as enthusiastic -and painful- as she expects. “I’ve missed you. _We’ve_ missed you,” Lyse corrects when Vochstein sounds his disagreement.

Relaxing in Lyse’s arms, she rests her head on her shoulder and watches their crystals -the very same Lyse had procured as a going away present back in the colony- glow with their proximity. At sixteen years, Lyse is taller than her now, taller than even Yda, much to the latter’s chagrin, and she cannot help but fondly recall the past years when she could smirk down at her overly excitable young friend.

“My apologies for not visiting these last moons,” she says when she has ensured the griffin does not get smashed between them. “Eorzea has kept me quite busy. I've hardly time to rest, these days.”

Lyse pulls away from the hug, hands lingering on her shoulders. “But you have today, right?” she asks hopefully.

“That I do,” she says, unable to hold back an affectionate smile when Lyse brightens.

“Tour time!”

Hahette’s new Free Company house is a tribute to the hard work she has put into building her reputation. In spite of the prevailing tales of riches and glory, adventuring groups often struggle for years to afford common housing, assuming they don’t perish at the hands of beasts and brigands in the process. Acquiring a medium-sized house, fully furnished, with an array of weapons and training gear to rival any professional training center, is an accomplishment she has never before seen from a company as young as Hahette’s. She isn’t quite sure if the intended effect of the main room being full of weapons is a threatening one or a simple advertisement of sorts. Perhaps it depends on the visitor’s intention.

“Hahette was really happy to have somewhere to hang all of her weapons. I never knew she hoarded so many.”

... _Oh_.

“And that’s The Nest,” Lyse says wryly, pointing to a large cubby built into the corner of the main room. “It’s Hahette’s bribe to Vochstein.”

The griffin croons, wriggling out of her arms so that he can fly directly to the cubby, which has enough space to allow him to stretch his wings and then some. From her -admittedly low- vantage point, she makes out a fluffy pillow, several shining crystals, toys, and a purple...scarf?

“Is that the scarf I sent you last moon?” she asks curiously. Not that she’s upset that it has been pilfered by Vochstein; it had merely been a random find in the market, bought mainly for its unintentional Ala Mhigan coloring.

Head dropping, Lyse sighs mournfully. “I thought it would be cute to put it on him, and he loved it so much that it’s his now. I tried to use it once, but he blew wind at my face, grabbed it, and ran off.”

Before Lyse can finish her explanation, Vochstein is flying back down to them. The scarf clutched in his plush claws drags a pillow it must have been under out from the aptly named Nest. Landing in his master’s arms he gives a demanding whistle, which earns him a “yeah, yeah” as the scarf is wrapped around his neck. When he is dressed as demanded, he raises his head high and puffs out his chest proudly.

Concerned as she is about the griffin’s possessive behavior, she allows herself to smile and scratch his neck. “You make a fetching picture.”

Vochstein may be a plush with limited facial expressions, but the amount of pride and sense of “I told you so,” in his demeanor when he spares his master a glance is unmistakable.

Shaking her head in resignation, Lyse continues the tour. The house has three levels, just as their own in Sharlayan, albeit with far more rooms to accomodate current and future members. 

The cellar is the lounging area, with bookshelves, a liquor cabinet, and plenty of couches and chairs for a hardworking adventurer to rest upon. Several posters and tasteful trophies hang on the wall, the first signs of personalization in the house. A small room in the corner of the cellar contains the potions and emergency rations.

“For emergency use ONLY! Disobey upon pain of _death_ ,” the large, yellow sign declares to them in large, blocky letters. The overdramatic nature of the warning is most certainly Hahette’s doing, but having seen first hand what the Elezen’s idea of “easy” training is, “pain of death” may not be much of an over-exaggeration.

Hahette’s office, the main library, and all other business related necessities are located upstairs. The large maps -one for each city-state, Sharlayan, and even Thavnair- posted on the library walls impress her. They are incredibly detailed works of art, and must be nearly four fulms in height. Bookshelves cover the rest of the room, aside from an enormous fish tank that sits against the back wall, and two separate workstations. The tanks was a present, Lyse tells her. The fish were included, aside from her old goldfish Speedy, who has grown exponentially since his “rescue” from the festival fish tank all those years ago.

“I was going to leave him, but Mhitra said he was almost meal-worthy. She can’t eat him! He’s family!”

“My sister has killed every fish she has ever had as a pet. T’was for the best.”

In every room, Vochstein makes a point of showing off his favorite perches and toys, many of which appear to be “borrowed” from the other FC members. His personality has truly advanced over the years; beyond anything she expected. The spellwork that Matoya had used operates as a mere guide, in a manner of speaking; how or _if_ the familiar evolves beyond those points often depends on the master and other outside influences.

“The others are on a mission right now,” Lyse explains as they prepare themselves some food. “Except Miheone, but she lives somewhere else. I was tasked with finishing the shopping, painting, and getting the accounts done. Ugh. I _hate_ doing numbers.”

She is surprised that accounting is Lyse’s only complaint. Her friend is impatient, energetic, and was likely itching to be included in the mission, yet she seems perfectly content with being left to take care of the mundane housework. She outlines her painting progress -with the evidence of her various mishaps still very much visible on her hair, clothes, and skin- bemoans the difficulty of creating a garden, and muses on how lucky she is that she has spent years helping Mhitra take care of the house. All without bitterness at being left behind, though she mentions future missions with eagerness.

Her own feelings about Lyse taking on missions are less content. Not for lack of faith in Lyse’s abilities -she is a martial arts prodigy who has had access to several highly skilled trainers- but due to the fact that, until now, her friend has always existed in the same category as her sister; safe, at home, away from the dangers that grow with every passing sennight. Now, Lyse is soon to be in the middle of all those dangers, and Mhitra is sure to follow, if she hasn’t already.

“Mhitra? No, she’s still home. I think she wants to move to Gridania, though. I’ve seen her reading books on the Shroud, and she mentioned that there is “promise” in that land.” Lyse shrugs, indicating that she has no further detail on what has piqued Mhitra’s interest. As busy as Carl has kept her with physical training, and how much of Mhitra’s spare time was spent teaching Lyse how to properly wage battle against mages, she imagines that they had not had much time to talk before the move. 

“Hahette would rather she live with us. Officially, she claims it's always good to have a skilled conjurer on hand, but I know better than that.”

Ah yes. Hahette’s harmless crush on her elder sister -so obvious that even Lyse had noticed- has been quite the source of amusement for their household these last two years. It is something Yda and Papalymo give the warrior endless grief over, and she herself is not above making subtle references to it. Strangely, the person most put-out about Hahette’s crush is Hahette herself. Likely because her flirtatious nature has no discernable effect on Mhitra, yet she respects her sister too much to push her attentions where they are unwanted.

“If Gridania has indeed captured my sister’s interest, there will be no swaying her into moving elsewhere,” she says thoughtfully. Shooing Vochstein away from her utensils as Lyse serves her, she continues, “The Sons of Saint Coinach would not hesitate to have one of their own in contact with the conjurers of the Shroud. She would have their full support for the relocation, should she want it.”

The idea nags at her for sennights after, but when she casually brings up the Shroud with Mhitra during her next visit, she only receives a shrug and non committal answer. Her work for Louisoix gives her few chances to press the issue, with her finding little and less time to visit home as beasts and men act up in Eorzea.

Of course, it does not help that Lyse is now readily available near Limsa, or that Hahette’s company is made up of extremely skilled warriors that she often requests the assistance of. She has little love for the current Admiral, to put it lightly, and having access to an outside group of adventurers that is reliable, strong, _and_ trustworthy is far more preferable than putting her trust in former pirates. Hahette benefits from the work as well; they are quickly gaining a reputation within Limsa, and work from the Circle pays quite well indeed.

“You were worried.”

She sighs. Lyse doesn’t sound offended, only disappointed, and she can easily guess the direction her thoughts are taking.

“I’ve seen goobbues crush many a seasoned adventurer. They are not a foe I take lightly.” And despite the god’s set of times she has worked with Hahette and Lyse, she is not quite used to the idea of her friend and former student fighting beasts five times her size. Always in her mind is the image of a soaked and bruised ten year old Lyse, grinning up at her and declaring her eyes to be pretty. “I would have been concerned regardless of my companion.”

Lyse hums, but does not respond further. She cannot be certain if her answer is acceptable, if she has eased her friend’s ridiculous worry that she is considered weak, or if the task of attuning Vochstein requires too much concentration to spare effort for responding. Oddly unsure of herself, and with no energy to press the issue, she rests her head on Lyse’s shoulder and watches her work.

Vochstein, on the contrary, is quite content with the attention he is receiving, spread out as he is across both their laps. His eyes are dim -his version of closing them- and his tail waves lazily atop the blanket. Though his features have been fully unlocked, the griffin enjoys having his masters reinforce the artificial aether network that animates him. These days, it is one of the few things that will persuade him to settle down for an extended period.

“He is becoming unruly,” she mutters, recalling the efforts and bribes it took them to coax him away from The Nest, where he had attempted to escape retribution after snatching her crystals when her back was turned. “I cannot say how his personality will continue to evolve, but the range of emotions he is capable of nearly qualifies him as a true familiar.”

Lyse scratches Vochstein’s back, causing him to croon and relax further. “He has only been aware of the world for three years now. Ava says ages two and three are the hardest with children. He would know best, considering how many siblings he has.”

Her laughter is as light as a sigh. Is Vochstein a child now? They certainly have had to discipline him as if he is, lately.

“Then let us hope we are nearly done with the worst of his growing pains.” Fighting a yawn, she absently strokes the griffin’s head. Sitting there in Lyse’s bed, the sun warming her back, Vochstein warming her lap, and Lyse’s body heat warming her side, she feels her eyes slip shut. The last two sennights required much travel through the Lominsan countryside, saw far too much fighting with the sahagins that continue to threaten the land, and with the lawless bandits that think to overtake roads.

When she next opens her eyes, the room is dark and she is tucked under the blanket, Vochstein resting under her arm. Lyse is gone, almost certainly having claimed one of the empty rooms for the night. Briefly, she wishes that her friend had stayed, wishes for the comfort her arms would surely provide, but the thought is lost in a wave of exhaustion, buried beneath the remnants of dreams and the weight of sleep as it overtakes her once again.

**1569**

“Oh, come on! Get over here! I need that!”

Booted feet run across the hall away from her office.

“Oh no you don’t!”

There is a distant thump. She sighs. What has she told that kid about jumping off the second floor? The cracks from Tragzhirn’s fall were only just repaired last sennight.

The commotion dies down, leaving her to concentrate on her work again. There is a budget to balance, applications to consider, and applications to send out. At some point, Lyse returns to the top floor, stopping by her office to announce that she is off for her latest mission. She sends her away absently, and, bells later, can only vaguely recall the interaction. Running an in-demand free company requires more paperwork than she had planned for, all those years ago.

It’s almost enough to make her regret her decision, some days.

“What trouble were you causing this time?” she asks when she descends to the main floor, long after her protege has left.

No whistle or chirp answers her question. Frowning, she glances over at The Nest. The tips of Vochstein’s ears are barely visible, the griffin having buried himself as far back into his “room” as possible. He’s sulking, she figures. It has been his habit of late, when both his masters leave. Before, Vochstein was happy to have free reign over the house -and everyone’s belongings- in their absence, but in the last moon she has noticed his enthusiasm disappearing, and _all_ have noticed him acting out. Lyse and Y’shtola have been subject to the worst of his attitude, finding themselves harassed whenever they attempt to leave the house.

“They’re worried about you, you know.” Still no acknowledgment. “Are you upset at being left behind?” she asks, chuckling.

Vochstein makes a series of angry chirps.

Taken aback, she crosses her arms. Some depression or loneliness, she can understand, but anger? And holding that emotion consistently? She hadn’t thought Vochstein to be capable of that level of sentience. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised, however. He has shown that he understands basic cause and effect, that actions have consequences, that there is a right and wrong thing to do.

When had he started acting up? At least a moon ago, she is sure, but she does remember some of the others commenting on the griffin’s mood earlier than that. At her best estimate, she guesses two moons ago is when he started to sulk.

Two moons ago. That was around the time Lyse had returned from a mission gone wrong. The kid had been laid up for a sennight from poison exposure, so if she had noticed anything odd with the griffin, she surely would have complained about it.

...Unless.

Dragging a chair over to the corner of the room, she climbs on top of it and peers into The Nest. “Come here, you silly fool,” she mutters, pulling Vochstein -and the scarf he is curled up in- out. “She’ll be back within a sennight, and your other mother sooner.”

Vochstein whistles in discontent. He is limp in her arms, his concern and fear draining his willpower. Too many times he has seen his masters leave, only to come back injured and bleeding. Cause and effect. His masters leave, his masters get hurt. No wonder the poor thing is upset.

“They’ll be fine, I promise.”

She keeps the depressed griffin with her as she picks up for the night, even allowing him to sleep at her side, and, after a restless sleep, gathers him up for a trip before the sun rises.

“Y’mhitra! I’m glad I caught you. Is it possible to make him battle ready?”

Y’mhitra, halfway out of her front door, freezes and blinks at her. “Hahette? What are you? Wait, what? Battle...ready?”

Her answer is to hold up Vochstein, who chirps in confusion but is nevertheless excited to see his “aunt,” so Lyse claims her to be. “Unless, that is, you simply cannot be torn away from your research...and your _peers_.”

The immediate annoyance in Y’mhitra’s expression is hidden quickly, but not quickly enough for her to be surprised when the scholar gives in with a blithe, “They aren’t like to miss me for the day.”

Bone claw replacements.

Cloth integrity enhancers.

Elementally aspected crystals.

Teaching him to cast multiple spells.

Y’mhitra lists out what they will need to do without hesitation, prompting her to wonder if the scholar has considered this idea ahead of time. Her idea it may have been, but she finds herself trailing after a determined Y’mhitra as they wander in and out of shops for the entire morning, buying the necessities for their project, debating the complexity of spells that Vochstein can handle, and chasing the griffin whenever he flies off to investigate something that catches his interest. Their only break comes when they hand the plush over to an expert seamstress who agrees to do the cosmetic work that very day.

Almost immediately after being placed on the counter, Vochstein hops over to investigate a basket of loose cloth strips...and flips the entire basket on top of himself.

They both wince, but the seamstress laughs. “My, that’s an unruly familiar you have there.”

“He takes after his masters,” Y’mhitra says, sighing when Vochstein wriggles out from under the basket, covered in cloth. “Both of whom are too curious for their own good, at times.”

The seamstress picks up the griffin, cloth strips and all, and examines him closely. “I rarely see a plush so advanced. Most scholars prefer the typical animals or automatons, as the level of skill and aether required to bespell and upkeep a plush is beyond most people’s capabilities and patience. Cleaning a few spills is more than worth a chance to work with him. What other additions are you making to him?” she asks curiously.

The seamstress grows thoughtful as they list what they hope to do with Vochstein, then declares that they can simply leave the crystals and return in four days. Their entire day suddenly cleared, they leave the shop in a daze.

Grinning at Y’mhitra, she asks cheerfully, “Shall we have lunch, then? My treat.”

It’s frightfully easy to pass the day with Y’mhitra, to forget the work awaiting her at home and simply relax. There are many things of interest to her in Sharlayan: books she has been meaning to buy, items she has been wanting to order, people she has been meaning to visit. Her studies into Mhachi history -searching for information about her sword- have grown to be nearly an obsession, and Limsa Lominsa is exactly well-suited for catering to that interest.

And now that she has the time and opportunity, she can further convince Y’mhitra to make the move to Eorzea. She can tell that wanderlust has her friend deeper in its clutches, and her ties to the motherland weaken with every family member that makes a home in Eorzea, with every story they tell of their adventures.

“You ought to pay Gridania a visit two moons from now. The mid-year festival it hosts is quite the event.” Catching the unimpressed glare she is given, she raises her hands to pacify Y’mhitra. “If all goes well, I fully plan on attending myself, and dragging your sister and the kid with me. Vochstein would enjoy the experience, I imagine.”

Satisfied that she isn’t being outright manipulated into moving, Y’mhitra chuckles at imagining the sort of mischief the griffin would cause. “Two moons from now, you say? I believe that can be arranged. Tell me more about this festival.”

Though she is sure that Y’mhitra has already studied the festival in question, she launches into a detailed retelling of her two visits. Excepting, of course, the more personal details concerning the partners she had spent an enjoyable night -and morning- with on both occasions. While never has she been shy about her rather active social life and sexual proclivities, she discovered early into their friendship that Y’mhitra is prone toward sharp-witted and blunt teasing.

Which is all well and good, except that when said teasing is turned against her, she suddenly becomes incapable of mounting any hint of verbal defense. In the interest of sparing herself the embarrassment, she has long decided to simply _never_ bring up such topics with Y’mhitra. She does have a reputation to consider, after all.

The night before they are due to pick up Vochstein, Yda and Papalymo arrive unexpectedly. Though mildly dejected at the distractions from Y’mhitra’s attention, her feelings are easily remedied by the pastries they have brought from Ul’dah, and besides, she so rarely has a chance to chat with either of them. Their visits to Sharlayan almost never coincided, with Yda constantly out on Archon business or Resistance business since before she met Lyse.

As they speak of the griffin, and the conversation inevitably turns to his masters, she observes the two Archons closely. Yda has always been intense; the weight of her losses and pain putting a dangerous spark in her eyes. She is no less confident than the first time they met, though she is missing the simmering contempt and anger now that she is away from Sharlayan and helping her people directly. Still, she senses some lingering frustration, and she imagines that the slow business of resisting is chipping away at the woman’s confidence.

Papalymo, on the other hand, seems far more tired than she remembers. Unlike his partner, he does not handle constant travel and fighting well, and though he has been at it for years now, the latest troubles in the realm are taking their toll on Louisoix's Archons.

But the two are home now, and whatever troubles and stress they have from dealing with the outside world are no match for the comfort of family and food. The only thing missing is the sound of Lyse and Vochstein running around training. Truthfully, the house doesn’t feel complete without them, and she wonders how Mhitra stands the emptiness, the lack of _life_.

The next morning, after they finish a late breakfast, the four of them slowly make their way to the weaver’s shop. They had stayed up far later than planned, conversing and sharing stories, and none of them are fully awake yet. Of course, once they arrive at the shop, one of the apprentices informs them that the seamstress has yet to return. Forced to wait, they idly debate the skills they ought to teach Vochstein.

It takes half a bell after they arrive for the seamstress to return with a rush of apologies. “We lost track of time arguing, but he is more than finished.”

Holding up the griffin, she allows them to take in the new and improved Vochstein.

“He. He looks _real_!” Yda exclaims, the first to break the silence.

Indeed he does. Though still pure white, gone is the soft short fur, now replaced with longer fur and what she suspects are _true_ griffin feathers where necessary. His claws and beak have also been replaced with genuine animal components, all reassuringly sharp. Even his eyes are different; not only are they painted to resemble griffin eyes, but the section where the pupil ought to be shines bright blue. His form has not escaped alteration either, and he is now slimmer, more aerodynamic.

Placing Vochstein on the counter, the seamstress lectures them as they watch him strut. “As I mentioned yesterday, plush animals are quite difficult to work with as familiars, which is why they’re so unpopular. The “memories,” if you will, of the various skins and animal parts tend to linger, and are even known to actively work against each other if a mage goes about mixing components without proper precautions. Fine, if you want a toy, less so if you want something more complicated. Most often plush familiars end up spending much of their aether just trying to keep themselves together, so we had to make certain that this one wouldn’t have that problem. Fortunately for you, we have plenty of griffin materials on hand, and his spellwork is top-notch. Archon level, I would say. I’m quite jealous.”

“And his...outfit?” Mhitra asks.

The seamstress grins. The scarf, she explains, he would not be parted with, but the rest was simple vanity. Vochstein is at a point of sentience that is referred to as the “discovery” phase. His sense of self has advanced enough that he needs to, well, personalize himself. Having the choices laid out for him, Vochstein picked out purple coverings for his legs, a single gold earring with an array of globes that chime lightly as he moves, and, hanging above the scarf, a crystal necklace much like the ones Lyse and Y’shtola wear. To make the picture complete, he has red Miqo’te markings on his cheeks.

“We weren’t sure what he was up to at first, dragging his face against the paint. But then I remembered you and assumed that one of his masters is Miqo’te. What child doesn’t want to emulate its parent? I had to wrestle him away from the mirror when I was done,” the seamstress says with a laugh. To illustrate her point, Vochstein flies to Mhitra and hovers so that he can press his new markings against hers. “Now let me tell you what we did with the crystals, and what _he_ can do with them.”

With Mhitra, Yda, and Papalymo in tow, they sail to Limsa Lominsa that very night. They had all _insisted_ they be present for the unveiling, and wanted the opportunity to train Vochstein before his revealing. However impossible it seems, Vochstein now has even _more_ energy. He can barely sit still, too enamored with his new look, his new skills, and, oddly, the sound his claws make when he walks. The griffin is beside himself with joy at the attention; Yda, who he practices his enhanced tornados on, is ready for the trip to end long before they make port.

Walking through the housing district, they let Vochstein fly in and out of the other yards. Eternally curious, he has to be talked out of taking any shiny object that fits in his now stronger claws, and several pedestrians curse when his wings come too close to their faces for comfort. Their cursing doesn’t last long, of course; all suddenly become eager to ignore Vochstein’s antics when they realize he is with the district’s infamous free company leader. It's when they get closer to home that Mhitra has to hold him. The griffin, torn between enjoying the affection and his desire to explore, chirps at them, demanding to know why he is being restrained while he plays with the buttons on Y’mhitra’s collar.

Luck is on their side that day; Lyse has returned from her mission, and Y’shtola has not yet returned to Sharlayan to receive another. The two are understandably confused by their appearance, though quite pleased at having their entire family unit in a single location.

“Before you ask, yes, he is with me, and yes, I had a reason. Consider this an early nameday present for you both.” Urging Mhitra -who is hiding behind her to shield Vochstein from view- forward, she watches their expressions change from curiosity to disbelief when the scholar reveals her squirming captive.

Vochstein, unable to contain his excitement, launches out of her arms and straight into Lyse’s chest, hitting her with an audible thud that makes all others present cringe. 

“What? Vochstein? How?” Lyse sputters incoherently as she holds the wriggling griffin. “You got a makeover! And...and it kind of hurts. Are those real claws? Careful!”

Lyse and Y’shtola spend bells marveling over the griffin, who is quite happy to be passed around and complimented. Once he tires himself out, they retreat out to the beach. They _are_ in La Noscea, with two of the people present never having visited, and only the worst sort of host doesn’t insist her guests enjoy the island pleasures.

“In all seriousness, what prompted this change?” Y’shtola asks, after they have acquired food for themselves and toys for Vochstein to play with. The question catches Lyse’s attention, and she pauses in her slicing of the watermelon to look at her expectantly.

Surprised that it takes this long for them to question her motives, she shrugs. “Seeing his parents injured so often was taking its toll on his emotional well-being. He is, after all, a reflection of you both. It stands to reason that protectiveness and a desire to help would manifest in his personality. That he could do naught but wait and watch left him in dark spirits.”

Y’shtola is thoughtful at her claim, but Lyse is stricken, the pain of being left behind, of being powerless resonating with her. She snatches Vochstein out of Y’shtola’s lap -to his protest- and hugs him tightly.

“You were trying to keep us from leaving, because we get hurt when we leave? We won’t leave you behind again. I promise.”

Making that promise is one thing, but dealing with the reality of it is, Lyse and Y’shtola discover, quite another. Training Vochstein takes up all their spare time and then some, all while their missions increase in frequency and difficulty. It is a task their entire company ends up helping them with, made possible by the detailed instructions left by Y’mhitra concerning training methods for familiars. By some miracle they are all able to attend Gridania’s festival, but there is no rest for them afterwards. 

Work requests flow in from all corners of Eorzea, and they struggle to keep up with them after she loses some of her friends to calmer waters. She hardly holds it against them, for retiring in the interest of building a stable career or family is perfectly admirable, but it leaves her scrambling to recruit reliable and _skilled_ adventurers. For a blessing, her connections -mainly A’aba and an officer within the Yellowjacket ranks- lead her to a handful of files to investigate. A promising young healer who catches Ava’s attention, two Hyur siblings from a formerly successful company that lost too many members in a bad mission, and a young freelancer marauder are successfully recruited soon after the festival.

It is the marauder -a Miqo’te by the name of R'ashaht Rhiki- that makes the biggest impression, because she gets along with Lyse like gunpowder does fire. Both energetic, both having started their adventurer life young, both ungodly skilled, they hit it off immediately. In spite of her serious doubts, she allows the two to work together under the watchful eye of Miheone.

Their first mission, they kill a pair of rampaging goobbue by causing a small rockslide. Their next mission, they take out a den of cutthroats by caving in their hideout. Eventually she has to order them to keep their explosions reasonable, if only to protect their budget. It’s bad enough that she has to buy Miheone twice as much alcohol as an apology for partnering her with the two young women. She doesn’t need governments crying out for reparations after a building or three get burned down on top of everything else.

Destruction aside, they are the most effective fighting team in the company. R’ashaht can keep up with Lyse, something few are capable of, and Lyse is a voice of reason that the often savage Miqo’te is willing to listen to. Within moons, they are best friends, with the potential to be _more_ , if the odd looks and occasional lingering touch are any sign. Lyse, of course, is clueless, but Rhiki strikes her as a woman that knows what she wants, and if she decides she wants Lyse, well. She doesn’t think the kid will be very opposed to the idea.

“So what approval process will Rhiki have to endure in order to be worthy of Lyse’s affection?” she asks Y’shtola one night, when the two women in question -and most of the rest of the company- are off on a mission.

To her disappointment, the conjurer doesn’t react to her question with the spark of jealousy she expects. She only shrugs and says calmly, “Lyse is perfectly capable of choosing a lover for herself. She isn’t one to be taken in by brutes or other questionable types.”

She snorts, because “brute” is certainly a word that has been used to describe R’ashaht Rhiki, but she supposes that, in this context, it doesn’t truly apply. The Miqo’te may be a savage fighter, but she cares for her family and friends deeply.

“At any rate, R’ashaht knows what will happen to her if she hurts Lyse.” Y’shtola’s tone is casual, but there is steel in her eyes, a ghost of a snarl on her lips, and she swears that the tips of her fingers glow with aether for an instant.

Though she has faced down monstrous creatures and taken out the worst sort of scum the world has to offer, she feels a shiver run down her spine at that expression.

_By the twelve, is Y’shtola Rhul frightening at times._


	4. Hard Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyse ends up on a mission that shows her just how evil humans can be and Yda comes face to face with her deepest fears and regrets when she ventures into her homeland for the first time since she fled Ala Mhigo fourteen years ago.
> 
> Life has never been easy for the Hext sisters, so why would it start now?

**1570**

' _Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. There's nothing that can be done but learn from your experiences._ ’

Hahette had told her that, years ago, as part of her “prepare yourself” speech when she officially moved to La Noscea. She remembers the day vividly; remembers the stuffiness of the kitchen as Mhitra made them food, the uncomfortable warmth of having Vochstein in her lap to keep him from harassing Hahette, the stern expression on her trainer’s face as she impressed upon her the work this path would require of her. Of the inevitable pain she will find.

Part of her had thought it pointless, for she had been born in the shadow of the Mad King’s tyranny. Her earliest memories are of smoke and fire, of blood and fear. She thought she had been prepared for anything and everything. The world, however, had seen fit to remind her that the depths of depravity that mankind can sink to are endless.

This situation is neither a win nor a loss; a hollow victory. Yes, they had taken out a group of notorious slavers, but remembering the bodies, the blood, the trauma in the eyes of the survivors, it's hard to feel anything like victorious.

She's glad that Shtola has taken Vochstein for her extended tracking mission. Her griffin adores children, and there had been _so many_ child slaves that hadn't survived. So many that had been ripped apart as bait for the feral dogs. So many that had seen worse fates than even that.

“Here. We need to eat.”

Her stomach turns at the thought of food, but her protest fades when she realizes that Ashaht has ordered soup for them both. That, she can make herself stomach. She eats in a daze, only managing to finish half her bowl. She feels guilty at the waste of food, but Ashaht gives up eating as well, and Ashaht _never_ leaves a meal unfinished. It only takes a shared look for them to decide that the only thing they can handle is sleep.

The combination of her injuries, the medicine she had been forced to take, the comfort of having Ashaht at her side, and exhaustion has her asleep the moment she settles in bed. It is the combination of her nightmares and Ashaht violently waking from her own that sees her up before dawn. Without a word Ashaht rolls on top of her, seeking her mouth, seeking a distraction that she is all too willing to provide. Their time together is short and desperate, but as they return to the caves, she can almost convince herself that she can handle the day’s work.

There are more victims to help, areas of the cavern network that served as the slaver’s base of operations that need to be cleared, bodies that need to be counted. There are too many victims to transport all at once, and many are too injured to transport at all. 

Though they had only been sent in as supplemental troops per Limsa’s request, were not meant to join the Yellowjackets for the entire duration of the mission, she finds herself among the small number of people tasked with clearing out the lower levels. The smell is horrendous -preventing any Miqo’te from joining their group- and though they wear scented bandanas to combat the acrid fumes, several times they have to run out to empty their stomachs. With no other choice, Ashaht spends her time above, organizing supply deliveries, assisting the healers, and keeping track of the bodies her group continues to pull out. 

There is little speaking among them. The situation is too tragic, too horrific for even gallows humor, and the oppressive atmosphere of the caves leaves them paranoid and on edge. They sleep in turns; or at the very least, they make valiant attempts to. Sleep is hard to come by when the echoing howls and barks of the feral dogs they have yet to put down haunt them at all times. When they do finally find and kill the beasts, the silence is even worse. Is it water that they hear dripping, or blood? Is it rocks and structures that are groaning, or half-dead victims that they have yet to find?

Time is lost to them in the caverns. There are enough provisions scattered throughout that they never need to return to the main level to resupply, and after the first two days, there are no victims to rescue; only rotting bodies to count as they map the tunnels. They simply move room through room, checking for evidence of buyers and partners, of alternate hideouts and their methods of transportation. It’s slow, all-consuming work. In the dark of the caves that only know death and and suffering, without Ashaht to provide a distraction, she has nothing but the crystal containing Shtola’s aether for comfort. No amount of darkness can dim _that_ light, and she clings to it every moment that her hand is free.

When they are finally dragged out by reinforcements and given over to healers with pity in their eyes, they are told that nearly a sennight has passed. The Admiral is present, even, announcing kindly that they are relieved of duty when she gets a look at them. Were she not borderline delirious and sleep deprived, she would have protested, but all she can do is stare as one of the others collapses, and another staggers off to retch.

Home. All she wants is _home_.

Ashaht, dirty, weary, and pale, tries to leave with her, but she doesn’t make it five fulms in her direction before the young Miqo’te she had been sitting near snaps. He tackles her and refuses to let her go, begging and wailing for her to stay, to not leave him. It takes a bell to calm him down -as well as the other victims that his cries have disturbed- and they only manage it because Ashaht promises to take him to her parents when his bandages are fixed.

Disheartened, she is forced to leave her lover and retreat to their inn room alone.

After taking a two-bell long shower she returns home, feeling a weight fall off her shoulders when she walks through the door. Music is playing from downstairs, the house is warm, and Miheone and Ava are lounging on the main floor, arguing over what looks like a mission report. Giving Mthem a silent greeting and an attempt at a smile, she ignores their concern and heads straight to her room. The report, she decides, can wait until after she has slept.

She doesn’t expect to find Shtola on her bed, fresh out of the bath and dressed for bed, chuckling while Vochstein rolls around in front of her, chirping indignantly. He’s tangled in her spare vest; his ears sticking out of one of the openings and a wing out of the other. Maybe it’s the peacefulness of the sight after what feels like a lifetime of horror, maybe it’s simply her emotions finally catching up to her, but something inside of her snaps just as it had for that child.

Shtola knows -Shtola _always_ knows- that something is wrong, because she takes her in her arms without hesitation, cradling her tightly. She sobs until her throat aches nearly as much as her heart does, sobs until she can barely breathe from the pain. The beginnings of a panic attack set in when her gasps remind her too much of how she struggled to breathe in the rancid air of the caves, which reminds her of the bodies; shredded, eaten, pulverized, sliced, floating in rancid water that was thick with blood and guts. 

Things grow hazy, after that. She recognizes the welcome tingling of a sleep spell, feels the injuries and aches that had been left untended begin to mend. Her last memories are of gentle hands wiping away her tears, Vochstein’s soothing croon, and Shtola’s soft murmurs of, “You’re safe now.”

When she wakes again, it’s to a fever, body aches, and Shtola hovering at her side. With how many freed slaves had needed help, and all the work that needed to be done, she hadn't bothered tending to her own wounds, aside from downing a potion every now and then. It takes Shtola and Hinden both to keep the fever down. Many of her injuries were on the verge of becoming infected. Between that and malnutrition -she had thrown up most everything she attempted to eat during her time underground- they express amazement that she had made it out of the caves at all, much less managed to teleport home.

Well. First they scold her for several bells, and _then_ they compliment her luck.

Her immune system compromised and most of her strength gone, she is banned from missions for an entire moon. Hahette, accepting their diagnosis, summarily dumps all of her paperwork on her side table after she recovers from the fever and takes off on a mission of her own. She resigns herself to budget management and answering mission requests with little fuss. Reckless she may be, and stubborn too, but she knows that she is in no condition to be traveling. Not when she can barely make it to the bathroom twice a day.

Vochstein remains at her side at all times, except for when he gets it in his mind to bring her toys and snacks that he thinks will make her happy. Shtola, too, is there constantly; holding her at night as she falls asleep, or in the morning when she wakes up. On the best days, it’s both. She hates being dependent on her friend for comfort, and tries to tell her that she doesn’t need to be there every day. Yet every night, every morning that finds Shtola in her bed, the words get lost between her brain and her mouth, and all she settles for soaking in the peace and comfort the arms around her provide.

Avaldr and Miheone are her other constant companions. They two have been with the company since its founding, which makes them practically family in her mind. She is comfortable with them, with sharing some of the more traumatizing details of the mission. In turn, they help her run the company while Hahette is out, and bring her food from Limsa when none of them feel like cooking. Avaldr has plenty of stories to share about his “siblings” -he supports the abandoned children of the now defunct orphanage he grew up in with his adventuring- that leave them crying from laughter, and Miheone knows just about every card game in Eorzea and beyond.

It’s towards the end of her ban that she sees Ashaht. The house is empty aside from Vochstein and her, but she still doesn’t realize her lover is there until Vochstein greets her with a whistle.

“You look well,” she says as she saunters over to the desk with a confident grin. “How did you get stuck at the desk?”

She shrugs and pushes away her paperwork with a pout. “I was banned from travel for a moon, and whether or not I’m allowed to return to missions is going to be decided by Shtola.”

Ashaht’s grin and steps falter. “...You were injured that badly?” she asks hesitantly. There’s a trace of guilt in her expression, and her posture drops. Before lovers, they are partners. That was the first thing they made clear when they entered into their relationship. But Ashaht hadn’t been there with her in the lower levels of the caves; she had been safe on the main levels.

Safe, maybe, but no less traumatized. She doesn’t remember much about the day she returned home, but she remembers the emptiness in Ashaht’s eyes, remembers the helplessness and frustration in her voice as she tried to calm down the boy, remembers how tightly she had gripped her hand, reluctant to let her leave.

Ashaht doesn’t deal well with emotions, yet had been forced to stay behind, surrounded by people dealing with the worst of theirs.

“No,” she says. Standing, she walks around the desk and her pulls her into a hug. “It was mostly infection and lack of food that did me in, but it’s fine. I’m fine now.”

Leaning into her, Ashaht hums and says, “Is that so?”

She responds with a hungry kiss and an invitation to see for herself; an invitation that is eagerly accepted. They make it to Ashaht’s room, but they don’t make it to the bed. They’re perfectly fine with taking each other against the wall, impatient after a moon without time together. Unfortunately, for all her boasting, her stamina _isn’t_ fully recovered, and the sex leaves her more exhausted and sore than usual.

“Y’shtola won’t let you leave the district if she knows your stamina is that bad,” Ashaht snickers as they make themselves comfortable in bed.

It’s an exaggeration, but not much of one. Shtola is fiercely protective at the best of times, and has been even more so this last moon. It was hard enough to convince the conjurer that she was perfectly capable of taking a walk to the _beach_ , that they _live next to_ , last sennight. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You’re insane if you think she won’t notice.”

“She hasn’t mentioned it yet, and she’s with me nearly every night.” The words slip out before she can stop them, and she struggles not to feel guilty when they cause Ashaht to stop and raise herself so that she can meet her eyes.

“You sleep with her? Every night?” There’s no accusation in her voice, though there is a healthy amount of curiosity.

“Chamomile doesn’t help me, and I’m not allowed to take sleeping potions,” she admits, hating herself for doing so. Her inability to sleep, the nightmares that wake her every bell, they’re a weakness, and Ashaht doesn’t have time for weakness. “But... _she_ helps. Just. Just being there.”

Ashaht stares at her a moment longer, face expressionless. Then she sighs and lowers herself again. “My mom has a recipe for a natural sleep aid. I’ll get it for you. You know. For the days Y’shtola can’t be here. Believe me, it works.”

Maybe it’s selfish or cruel of her, but part of her is relieved that Ashaht too is having trouble adjusting to normal life again. It makes her feel better about her nightmares, about how the howling of the local dogs makes her flinch, how the smell of iron makes her queasy.

They linger in bed until their strength returns, because Ashaht, it turns out, had contracted a bad fever herself. She isn’t at full strength, but she insists on taking a simple escort mission originally meant for Miheone. Staying home for nearly a moon has left the Miqo’te restless, and there’s no real reason to deny her request. Unfortunately, that means her partner has to leave within two bells to meet with the client, which gives them little time together.

Left alone again, she ponders her lack of attachment to Ashaht until Miheone returns from a meeting with the Admiral’s people, dinner in one hand and alcohol in the other.

“Are you supposed to be in love the person you’re having sex with? Like, love love?”

Miheone freezes, her bottle of Lominsan Red halfway to her mouth. “Uh, no, not particularly. Just look at Hahette. The most stable, “loving” relationship she’s ever had is her infatuation with Rhul the elder.”

She frowns and drops her chin onto her palm, her other hand tapping the kitchen counter impatiently. “It’s not that I don’t like her. Obviously I do. I like _everything_ we have, but is it enough to _just_ like it? Am I supposed to be giving more? Or expecting more? Why doesn’t it bother me that we didn’t see each other for nearly a whole moon? Other than that she’s my friend and I didn’t know how she was doing. Is it bad that she isn’t the one I want comfort from the most? Why-”

Her tirade of questions is halted by Miheone, who puts a hand over her mouth and sighs. “Every relationship is different, Lyse. _Love_ is different to everyone. If you both are fine with what you have, then that’s all there is to it. It doesn’t sound like either of you want more out of it, so quit worrying and go clean your sheets before your other Miqo’te gets here.”

“...We used Ashaht’s room, actually.”

“How prudent of you.”

“...And Shtola isn’t _mine_. How rude. Have you _seen_ her? She’s all! And I’m just!”

Miheone blinks at her vague gesturing. “I suppose you have a point,” she concedes, “but she sleeps with you nonetheless.”

Shtola doesn’t return before she gives up on paperwork and drags Vochstein to bed. Her sleep is blissfully free of nightmares. Instead, her dreams take her back to Ashaht’s room. She is pulling her lover into bed, except when Ashaht pins her down, suddenly it isn’t her, it’s Shtola, and they’re in _her_ room. Dream-Lyse smiles, takes the changes in stride, and pulls Shtola down for a deep kiss, savoring the soft lips against her own, the lithe body that rests on top of her, and the needy whine that Shtola lets out when she breaks away.

_‘I’ve always wanted to do that.’_

She wakes with Vochstein curled at her hip and Shtola -having slipped in during the night as usual- half on top of her. Staring at her companion, she gets the vague impression of a kiss and sliver of desire that she has _no business_ feeling. Images from her dream start to surface until Vochstein, realizing that she is awake, jumps onto her stomach and demands a morning walk. By the time she finishes settling him down and getting ready, all memories of the dream -and the emotions connected to it- are gone.

“When did you get here?” she asks Shtola, who is woken by the fuss.

Shtola sits up with a wide yawn that makes her jaw pop. Shaking her head slowly, she rubs her eyes and says softly, “Two bells ago, at most.”

Before she thinks to stop herself, she is pushing her friend back down and pulling the blanket over her. “Sleep, Shtola. It’s supposed to be a nice day. We can spend the evening in town.”

Taking a deep breath, Shtola sighs and settles without fuss. “That is acceptable,” she whispers.

Vochstein carefully lays next to her head, pressing his mock Miqo’te stripes against hers -his way of greeting and saying farewell to Shtola ever since his makeover- and croons. She remains on the bed as well, softly rubbing the base of Shtola’s ears until they are sure she is asleep. Part of her wants to stay, wants to cradle Shtola against her and never let go, never leave, never face the outside world again.

But the intensity of her desire, the _selfishness_ of it drives her away from her room.

“Rhalgr, I’m a mess. I can’t cling to her forever, Vochstein. I have to stand on my own again.” Picking up her griffin, she holds him up against the rising sun and smiles grimly. “After all, _we’re_ supposed to be supporting _her_. Not the other way around. The world needs her, and we can’t drag her down.”

Vochstein chirps firmly, then wriggles out of her grasp to play with a sea bird that lands too close to them.

She is given a reluctant -and _tentative_ \- clean bill of health three days later, but Hahette sends word that she is caught up in “networking” and leaves her in charge until she returns. “Only a short time” ends up being an entire moon, much to Shtola’s approval. She forgives her leader’s extended absence when she returns with suspiciously well-paying missions lined up for all of them and two new members. Her routine soon settles into something resembling normal, as does Shtola’s. They go back to seeing each other once a sennight or two; the only difference is that there is now an unspoken agreement that Shtola will share her bed when she stays with them.

Not that they have empty rooms to spare, anymore.

The nightmares and mental trauma take much longer to fade than her physical injuries, but she keeps her troubles to herself as best she can, hoping that someday she will heal.

**1571**

_“I know it’s risky, but I can’t turn them down. Not when there isn’t a single damn person who cares on this godforsaken continent.”_

Through civil war and Garlean occupation, Gyr Abania saw much change in the years before and after she was forced to flee with Lyse. It is a country that has been irrevocably changed by the disasters that befell it, unrecognizable from the world of her childhood.

But the land itself is much as she remembers it, and nature cares little for the woes of men. The oppressive heat, for instance, always has been and always will be torturous. Wiping her brow, she pushes up the sleeves of her shirt and wishes that they had come at a cooler time of year, or that she had worn her nicer battle outfit. The outfit isn’t any good for covert missions -red and white stand out far too much- but it’s loose and airy and so very light compared to her current heavy greaves, mask, and Sweat drips down next to her ear, and the urge to strip her shirt and mask off grows.

Lyse, she notices with envy, is utterly unaffected by the heat. _She_ is wearing a purple hooded griffin themed vest with a blood red half-mask, and though her usual shorts have been switched out for pants colored to match her mask, the material is light and loose. The outfit was meant to be Lyse’s nameday gift from Mhitra and her, but when she caved in to her sister’s arguments for accompanying her on the mission into Gyr Abania, they had given it to her the night before they set out.

“Have we ever visited this area?” Lyse asks, hand resting above her mask as she scans the Peaks in the distance.

“This particular area, no. Ala Ghana is on the other side of the Peaks. We didn’t travel very often, because mom was training to be a master at the Temple. Then she got pregnant with you, and the temple burned, and we _definitely_ couldn’t travel.”

The refugees and Resistance members following them listen with interest. Her father is the great Curtis Hext, after all, and they take great interest in anything relating to him. Especially his daughters. Lyse, they’re unsure of, but her they talk to, defer to, stare at with hope in their eyes. A few years ago, she would have been proud, would have accepted their interest as her due.

Now, she only feels guilt. Guilt, that this is all she can do. Guilt, that after years of living in Eorzea, years of studying, years of being an Archon, she has nothing to show for it. Her homeland isn’t any closer to being free, their oppressor not any closer to being driven away. She doesn’t want their hope and gratitude.

She isn’t worthy of it.

Very quickly, she finds that she prefers the company of the children, who don’t care at all that her father is some old hero from before the Imperials took over. They only care about two things; discovering all the tricks that Vochstein knows, and arguing over who gets to be carried by her or Lyse, or who gets to sit on Lyse’s back when she does push-ups. Just like their mother used to do with them, though she doubts her sister remembers. To Lyse’s dismay, she takes great joy in encouraging the children to pile onto her sister, Vochstein settling himself at the top of to declare himself the winner every time. There is a sense of relief among the older refugees that the children are distracted from the danger in their travel, and some even manage a smile at their quiet games.

And when the children are asleep, those same adults amuse themselves with teaching Vochstein to whistle old nursery rhymes. Lyse listens to them intently, filling in the gaps of her own sadly lacking knowledge of Gyr Abanian traditions. A lack that is most assuredly _her_ fault. There are so many things she never got around to telling her sister about their homeland, so many little things she never _thought_ to tell her.

Things she had forgotten herself, in her rush to become an Archon. It had hurt to talk about home at first. She had been so sure that she would take Lyse back someday, that all she needed to do was become powerful and magically take her country back. There would be plenty of time to be with her sister after they returned home; or so she told herself every day.

Instead, all she wound up doing was alienating the only family she had left. Had it not been for Lyse’s fateful encounter with Y’shtola Rhul, what would have happened? Would she have continued to put her sister last, leaving her behind without regrets, never noticing that she was allowing Lyse to lose all memory of their family? Of their history?

“We’re going to have to be careful now. This is the most dangerous section of our route. From here on out, we aren’t safe until we cross the wall,” she tells the group sternly. They have been traveling for three and a half sennights by now, and their exhaustion is transparent. But so is their determination to see the refugees in their charge safely to Eorzea. Potions are brought out and passed around, food is consumed, and their packs rearranged to avoid excess noise.

Better to take any and every precaution possible, and even the smallest things helped alleviate their anxiety..

“Vochstein,” Lyse says firmly. The griffin perks up as his master gives him a series of whistles and clicking noises. Shaking himself, he bumps his head against the child he is resting with, then launches into the air. He is to be their scout and air support for the rest of the trip. A small, lone griffin high in the air is nigh impossible to see on a night with clear skies and aa full moon, much less a night like this, with clouds so thick that no star or moon’s light can penetrate them.

“Hunt speak?” a female Miqo’te Resistance hunter named J’zhosmee, asks, impressed. “That...actually wasn’t bad.”

Lyse shifts in embarrassment and thanks her for the compliment. “My partner insisted I learn. Most of the more complicated phrases I can’t do myself, so my best friend invented this cube for me. If I tap it in a certain order, it will say them for me. It’s surprisingly useful in the field.”

J’zhosmee is at her side in a flash, captivated by Y’shtola’s little invention. She pelters Lyse with questions: how much aether does it require, how many phrases can it hold, how long does the spell last, can the volume be adjusted, can her friend make a god’s set or three of them? The soldier rambles about how _useful_ those have the potential to be for the Resistance, especially for the Miqo’te filled scout ranks, or for dealing with civilian locals, only quieting when they resume their trek to Eorzea.

The declaration of the tool’s potential to save lives startles her. A tiny little toy like that? It doesn’t seem very grand, but to be honest, the Resistance needs all the help it can get. It can’t be used by the imperials either, which keeps their code safe. Immediately, she begins planning. The spells Y’shtola used aren’t terribly advanced, and she knows plenty of Miqo’te who can provide the specific phrases that the Resistance uses. The most difficult step will be obtaining and spelling that many objects, but between Papalymo, her, and possibly Mhitra if she doesn’t object, that will hardly be a problem at all.

They are nearly to the border when there is a distant cry from above. It must be in hunt speak, because Lyse and J’zhosmee both freeze, then curse.

“Surrounded,” Lyse growls.

“They knew we were coming,” J’zhosmee adds needlessly. “That’s why we had such an easy time. They _wanted_ us to get this far. To make sure we couldn’t turn back.”

The refugees cling to each other as the children -brave creatures all- sniffle, fear rising. She exchanges grim looks with the other Archons. As much as they don’t want to admit it, the scout speaks true; there is no turning back.

“Most of the effectiveness of a surprise attack is in the surprise, so at the very least, we’ve blunted their teeth a bit. How many will it take to hold an illusion, if we get the refugees into the trees?” she asks her fellow Archons.

Wawakuma - the Circle’s master illusionist- steps forward confidently. “I can hold one myself, if we remain near each other. A night such as this? I’ll not need much effort to blend us in.”

The refugees are lifting the children into the trees before any other input can be added, well aware that they have very little time to ready themselves.

“They don’t know how many of us there are. That’s why they didn’t ambush us earlier. You Archons have a reputation, after all, and they fear magic.” Lyse examines the group, then turns to her and nods. “We can use that. Ivoix, J’zhosmee, and I will create a distraction. We may have to fight, but it will start on _our_ terms. You’ll know when to join in.”

Throughout the entire risky journey, with all the close calls and the weight of the lives she is protecting, even when Vochstein revealed that they are trapped, she did not feel the kind of paralyzing fear that Lyse’s word inflict on her. Desperately, she grabs and hauls her close. “Are you insane?” she hisses. “Three of you? Against an unknown number of imperials? You can’t just-”

Lyse stops her tirade by gently covering her mouth with a trembling hand. “There’s no _time_ , Yda. This is all we can do.”

For a moment, she isn’t twenty-nine years old, staring up at her baby sister in the middle of a forest, surrounded by imperials, the weight of their countrymen’s lives on her shoulders. For a moment, she is thirteen, staring up at her mom for what will be the last time, Lyse in her arms and tears in her eyes, the spectre of the Corpse Brigade closing in on them.

_“There’s no time, my loves. Stay here. You’ll know when to run_. _”_

She can’t shake herself out of the memory fast enough to say another word to her sister; can’t do more than watch her disappear into the forest, the Archon and scout at her side. “We’ll swing around to attack from a different angle,” she says numbly. “That should give them sufficient time to grab their attention. Wawakuma, once the rear group passes, get them across. Either we follow you through, or we die. Don’t wait for us.”

The lalafell gives a heavy sigh. “Understood.”

Once the fighting starts, the rest of the night passes in a blur of pain and desperation. They are outmatched and outgunned, but Lyse’s original surprise attack has severely damaged the war machine that had been waiting for them. Left to fight normal soldiers, their odds are much, much better, and, unlike the imperials, they are fighting as though it will be their last. They hold nothing back with their spells, desperately using every skill, every last whisper of aether they have in order to give themselves hope of escape. Two Archons are lost in the battle and one of the Resistance scouts, severely injured, stays behind to blow up the tunnel behind them.

Injured and barely conscious, they limp their way to Quarrymill where Wawakuma and the refugees await. They stay long enough to treat their wounds and eat -from their own supplies, as they aren’t interested in dealing with the elemental’s ire should they be unwelcome- then clamber into the wagon they have hired to take the refugees to Little Ala Mhigo. Her fellow Archons depart to Sharlayan in order to deliver their report, leaving Lyse and her to escort the refugees and Resistance members.

A young Hyuran orphan, seven year old Saemundr, immediately settles at Lyse’s side and refuses to move, treating Vochstein to all the attention the griffin desires and has earned. His four year old sister, Raforta, curls up under her own arm, small hands grasping her shirt tightly. They aren’t the only two orphans among the children, but they’re the only ones without family of any kind on either side of the border.

It’s a situation she can relate to.

Their trip is spent dozing, with most of the chatter coming from Lyse and J’zhosmee. The refugees are visibly relaxed now that they have made it to Eorzea, but the weight of the sacrifices it cost them keeps the mood somber.

Gundobald and the others of Little Ala Mhigo welcome them at the entrance; accompanied by Hahette, Y’shtola, and Papalymo.

Hahette takes one look at them, at the girl in her arms and the boy who refuses to leave Lyse’s side, and raises her eyebrows. “Family?” she asks, after they greet them wearily.

Lyse and her shake their heads simultaneously.

Sighing, their long-time friend glances at Little Ala Mhigo, at the sorry state of the village and the other refugees, then turns and shrugs. “Avaldr and Hinden bought the plot across the way while you were gone. We have the room for them, and they won’t be lacking for playmates after Ava moves his siblings over. If you have any kids good with numbers,” she starts, now speaking to Gundobald, “I’m in the market for a secretary as well.”

She loses interest in the conversation after that, focused instead on loosening the absurdly strong hold on her neck Raforta has. Saemundr is spinning Vochstein around in circles in celebration while Y’shtola promptly begins to fuss at Lyse. 

“Did you think to take care of your injuries at all? I thought you would have learned your lesson after last year,” she says with a scowl. “Sit, so I can take a look.”

“This is hardly the same thing! And I’m fine. I’d rather just-”

“ _Sit_.”

Lyse sits on the wagon, defeated. Not wanting to risk a similar scolding, she quickly takes a seat next to her, avoiding the conjurer’s gaze.

“She’s strong,” Raforta whispers in awe, making her snort. Y’shtola’s ear twitches, and while she doesn’t acknowledge that she heard the girl’s words, there is a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Though I am certain your mission was hectic, you ought to take better care of yourselves,” Papalymo adds. Crossing his arms, he shakes his head at her. His tone is rueful, but his posture is tense with concern, and she hadn’t missed the relief in his eyes when he saw for himself that they are alive and still in one piece. “Honestly, what am I to do with you?”

‘ _You almost had to do without me_ ,’ she wants to say, but the words get caught in her throat. That isn’t something she can joke about when the memory of her fear, of watching Lyse walk away is so clear in her mind. They should have died there. If Vochstein hadn’t warned them -if Lyse had stayed behind as planned- they would have all died. And for what?

All they are doing, all they have _ever_ been doing is running away. They can’t fight back, can’t save their home. There is no one to help them. All they can do is just...gather up the scattered remains of their pride and _pray_. Working, fighting, dying for anything more is pointless, because there isn’t anything more. This...this is it.

A small hand pats her cheek, startling her out of her melancholy thoughts.

Raforta smiles up at her. “Your turn to be fixed.”

‘ _How do you fix something as broken as I am?’_

The thought settles in her mind, but she forces herself to smile at the young girl. “Since you’re going to be living with them, here’s the first rule of the Hext-Rhul family; never argue with the conjurer. Or a Rhul.”

The advice is taken under careful consideration as the girl allows herself to be placed on the cart next to her. Her healing is watched with wide, curious eyes, the conversation between the Archons and Lyse listened to intently. They make plans on how to get the children to La Noscea, on what they will need prepared for them, and what other things they will need to arrange once the two are settled.

When their healing is done and they have spoken with Gundobald, J’zhosmee appears with some water and bread, the only rations the village can spare them at the moment. The scout takes one look Y’shtola, who is examining Vochstein with a worried Lyse and Saemundr hovering at her side, and promptly mistakes her for her sister’s lover. Munching on the last of her personal rations, she watches the fascinating range of emotions both women express; everything from surprise to embarrassment to...disappointment?

Putting her food aside, she tilts her head and considers Y’shtola as Lyse squeaks a denial, then declares that no, better than her lover, _this_ is the genius behind the cube. The expression had been quick but she is certain of what she saw.

Y’shtola Rhul has something of an _interest_ in her sister. It might not be a major thing now, but she knows those two, knows the sort of relationship they have. That is a spark that doesn’t need much fuel to burn, whatever Lyse’s current relationship status. Her sister has been in love with Y’shtola since she was ten years old, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Y’shtola, however, is going to be in for a big letdown if she thinks to act on it anytime soon.

After all, if memory serves her true, her future sister still has half a year to go before she will allow them to become lovers.

Hahette and Y’shtola teleport home to prepare the room for the children, and Papalymo reluctantly returns to Sharlayan in order to begin acquiring the materials needed for the project she has volunteered them for. Lyse, the children, and her decide to rest in Little Ala Mhigo for the night.

“Really, Lyse. I haven’t seen you turn that red since the day you told me that R’ashaht had propositioned you,” she teases. 

Lyse blushes again and hides her head under her blanket, groaning miserably. “Can we never mention that conversation ever again, please? Or this one.”

She chuckles at her sister’s misery. “Fine, but remember what I said in the Colony.” At Lyse’s questioning look, she smirks and waves a finger at her. “Ten years before you can have her. You've got six moons left.”

There is something very fulfilling in watching Lyse’s confusion turn to genuine horror. “ _YDA!_ Can you not?” she says, voice strangled from her effort to avoid waking the children sleeping at their sides.

“It’s okay to like her. She’s smart, and strong, and pretty.” Repeating the words Lyse said as a child, she realizes with glee that they will never _not_ be embarrassing enough to use against her sister.

Lyse sputters, attempting to argue her words without insulting Y’shtola, then refuses to speak to her when she laughs at her anger. Grumbling about how it _wasn’t_ a crush and the general rudeness of older sisters, Lyse firmly buries her head under her blanket, pouting until she falls asleep.

She wishes she can do the same, wishes that her racing mind would calm and give her body the rest it needs. After bells of laying there, listening to Lyse's mumbling, the heavy footsteps of guards making rounds, and the hushed murmur of refugees suffering from nightmares, she gives up. Sneaking away from her sister and the kids -new siblings? Adopted children? They should have thought this out a bit more- she climbs to a secluded area outside the village, making herself comfortable on one of the small ledges.

Or so she _thinks_ it is secluded, but she is joined by Gundobald shortly after.

“You’re exhausted, lass,” he says kindly.

She scoffs. “Being ambushed by imperials after practically a moon of travel will do that.”

“I don’t doubt it, but that isn’t the sort of tired I meant. Had your fill of _resisting_ , haven’t you?”

Flinching, she looks away from him and out into Thanalan. Whatever she was expecting him to say, it wasn’t _that_. “That” being the truth. All the rage, shame, and doubt that she has been fighting rises, her body trembling with the effort of containing her emotions.

‘ _There’s no time, my loves.’_

_‘There’s no time, Yda.’_

“I almost lost her,” she chokes out, tears escaping her eyes. “She walked away. I. I _watched_ her walk away, just like I watched mom walk away and I just. I couldn’t. Right then, I would have given anything to keep her safe, to keep from losing her. Right then, I thought that the mission wasn’t _worth it_. Not if it meant losing her.” She tries to wipe away her tears, but there are too many, and she settles for covering her face with her hands. 

“How could I?! There were _refugees_ with us! Children! The mission, the Resistance, they should matter the most, should always come first, so why?! My father was able to leave us when he knew we were targets, when he knew that they were coming for _all_ of us, because he knew-”

“Nothing.” Gundobald interrupts.

She is so startled by his declaration that even her tears stop. “W-what?”

“He was wrong to do that, lass. Curtis Hext may have been a hero, the Voice of the Resistance, but in that, he was wrong.” The old man sighs and pulls her into a hug, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Near fifteen years we have been fighting. It was easy at first, wasn’t it? Aye, all filled with anger and hurt. We thought we could take on the empire with that alone, threw ourselves into this fight, into this dream, and didn’t look back.”

“No, “back” is all we were looking at. Back at our stolen country. Back at the shattered remnants of our lives,” she says bitterly.

Gundobald smiles, an odd expression for their conversation. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the first thing you picture.” He waits for her to nod before asking, “What is home?”

“Lyse.” Her answer startles her, but Gundobald nudges her and encourages to continue. Swallowing thickly, she continues, voice shaking, “Mhitra. Vochstein. All of us eating dinner, or training, or working, or baking. Terribly, I might add. Our cakes never turned out right. Y’shtola. Coming and going, but a pain either way because she’s Lyse’s favorite person and she teaches Vochstein how to best annoy me. Papalymo. Always so damn sure of himself but always so supportive of my decisions. Always...at my side.” Her voice grows quieter as she lists off everything that is important to her, everything that is home. 

Things are different now, of course. Lyse and Y’shtola are in La Noscea, she jumps from mission to mission without stopping, and Mhitra is left in Sharlayan. But the memories remain, and suddenly all she wants is her _family_. Together. Safe.

“I want my homeland back, but the most important thing is keeping our _people_ safe. _They_ are Ala Mhigo. Our families are what matter most, and I’ve seen too many broken because of this hatred we think we ought to keep burning. You don’t have to stop fighting, but there is no shame in slowing down and appreciating all you have left. All you have gained.”

Gundobald’s words -and several cups of coffee- keep her spirit and energy raised for the journey to the Mist. Once the children are safely delivered, she gets confirmation that there is an extra room, and she returns to Sharlayan to give Louisoix her report, she rushes home to find…

Nothing.

Rolling her eyes, because it is _far_ past dinner time, she rushes through the empty streets that lead to Sharlayan’s most revered building.

“Do you have _any idea_ what time it is?!” she shouts when she enters Mhitra’s small Studium office.

Mhitra jumps, knocking her chair and a stack of books over in an impressive yet alarming clatter. “Yda! Was that really necessary?” she demands, ears and tail at alert while she holds one hand over her heart and the other clutches her wand.

Half of her brain wants to apologize, but the other, stronger half blurts out, “You should stay with Lyse. Our family is growing and you should be in Eorzea with us.”

Mhitra stares. And stares. She isn’t even thinking over the decision, stuck firmly in the processing stage. Expressionless, her eyes drift to her stomach.

_“_ NOT LIKE _THAT!_ ”

Once they have both calmed down and the situation is explained, Mhitra agrees to consider the idea, then proceeds to drag her home with a scolding that much resembles Y’shtola’s scolding of Lyse, only less with fawning and more exasperation. She doesn’t mind, however, as the promise of a hot bath more than makes up for it.

A hot bath, real food, enough snacks to satisfy even Lyse, and a comfy bed. Yes, she will accept any amount of scolding in exchange for those things. Sinking into her rarely used mattress with bliss, she swears that nothing in this world, not even sun or the gods themselves, will wake her for at _least_ a sennight.

And sleep through the sunrise she does, but not through Mhitra’s insistent shaking in the early morning.

“Yda. Get up. We need to pack.”

Cracking one eye open, she groans, and, without warning, grabs her friend -her _sister_ \- and pulls her into bed. “No. Sleep,” she orders grumpily.

“Yda!” Mhitra struggles, but she doesn’t stand a chance without resorting to spells. Realizing this, the scholar sighs and gives up, settling into her arms. “Only for a bell. I was up all night anyway.”

A single bell turns into half the day. By the time they finish packing the essentials, inform Papalymo of the move, and teleport to the Mist, the house is dark save for a single light; Hahette’s office.

“Let’s go make her day, shall we? What’s left of it, anyway,” she says, snickering and nudging Mhitra’s arm. “Do you think I’ve earned her eternal gratitude for convincing you to move into her place?”

The conjurer huffs, strangely not in the mood to laugh about the not-so-secret crush that she has been the focus of for years now. “Oh, hush you.”

Hahette predictably greets them both joyfully, and accepts their desire to move with such excitement she can’t even bring herself to tease the woman.

They are led to their room eagerly, warned of early risers, given a general estimate of when it’s safe to eat, and updated on the progress with the children. “Raforta is the darling of the house already. She’s the one I’m going to have to watch out for. Sae, on the other hand, adores Vochstein, and adores Lyse, which means he has already been instilled with a healthy amount of respect for Y’shtola’s authority. At any rate, I can tell that the two of you are exhausted, so I’ll let you rest. We’ll have time tomorrow to discuss our new situations.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Mhitra says, a small yet genuine smile on her lips.

Humming in agreement, Hahette leans against the door, returning the smile with an equally affectionate one.

The atmosphere in the room turns odd, almost awkward on her end. Squinting at the two women suspiciously, she nevertheless ignores their strangeness and orders Hahette to keep quiet about their arrival. Once Lyse knows, she will be too excited to let them sleep in, and if Lyse interrupts her sleep, she may throw something at her. Which would lead to Mhitra scolding her, and Y’shtola later exacting retribution.

All in all, far too much trouble after the moon she has had.

“And here I thought her crush was unrequited. I’m surprised at you, Mhitra,” she says as they clamber into bed again.

Her words must have taken Mhitra by surprise, because she falters, smacking her shin against the bedframe and wobbling as she attempts to catch her balance. “Don’t be ridiculous, Yda.” Scowling at her, she firmly drops onto the bed and rubs her shin. “Hahette is a dear friend. That is _all_.”

She hums a condescending agreement, distracted by how _soft_ the mattress is. Gods, it’s no wonder Y’shtola prefers staying with Lyse over wasting energy teleporting back to Sharlayan after every mission. Are these blankets imported from Doma or something? It’s like touching a cloud, they’re so soft.

“And not only that, but she, unlike the rest of you, has maintained _regular_ contact with me since the company’s establishment. Her reports are often the only news I have for moons at a time about Shtola and Lyse.”

Cringing at Mhitra’s admonishment -for it is the very issue she has been criticizing herself for- she pulls the blanket over her head and curls up on her side. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I have no excuse for that. I thought I had learned my lesson with Lyse, but I hadn’t at all. I failed you, and Lyse, and even Y’shtola. I kept pushing, kept leaving when I should have stayed. I-”

She stops when Mhitra settles behind her and throws an arm around her waist. “Really, Yda. There’s no need for that. We _all_ have improvements to make, and we’ll do it together.”

Her throat hurts from the effort it takes to breathe. By the twelve, hasn’t she cried enough in the last day? “I don’t deserve you. Any of you.”

“That has nothing to do with anything,” Mhitra scoffs gently. “We are family. We have never questioned your love or loyalty. Now sleep, Yda. There are two traumatized children who will need _all_ of our attention.”

As much as she wants to argue, wants to vent about her many failures and shortcomings now that she is ready to face them, Mhitra cuddles closer and repeats her order to sleep. She’ll have plenty of time brood later, when she is not so tired, and the blankets are not so warm and the mattress not so soft.

“I’ll be better,” she whispers. “For everyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is the Calamity! And it isn't going to be fun for anyone at all. I may have sniffled a bit, writing those portions. Look forward to it!


	5. End of an Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAANGST.
> 
> Or, the Calamity arrives.

**1572 (1)**

The world falls apart seemingly overnight. It isn't as though Eorzea has ever been _stable_ per se, but voidsent, aether going out of whack, imperials, and a _falling moon_?

It's a bit ridiculous, but all she can do is focus on _her_ part of protecting her home.

“Times like these, I miss Ashaht the most,” she says to a preening Vochstein.

Her now former partner had enlisted in the Maelstrom the day its forming was announced, and she did nothing but encourage her. Their mission that saw them take down the worst slaver hideout in the land had changed them both, but the pain had only started for Ashaht as her parents adopted the child that had refused to leave her side. His ongoing recovery from his experiences left its mark on his new sister, giving her a determination to keep her home safe, and to destroy any and all slavers who dared draw breath in her lands.

“Ma’am, the enemy has been sighted.”

Sighing, she nods at the tall Roegadyn Maelstrom soldier -whose name escapes her at the moment- and quickly reattaches her armour pieces. She has been in Aleport for two sennights now, helping fend off Kobold raids as a favor to Ashaht and the Admiral. Well, technically they had asked Hahette for any and all able bodies, but every last member of their company is in the field, protecting merchants, or fighting voidsent, or fending off the suddenly berserk creatures that are flocking to towns.

“Alright Vochstein. I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”

The Kobolds are aggressive, numerous, and driven by fear. By rage. She isn’t unaware of the broken treaties and betrayals between the beast tribe and the Admiral, but neither can she stand by and watch innocent people be killed. As much as she despises the needless fighting -there are bigger enemies out there, worse dangers that they should all be working _together_ to fight against- she does not dare hold back. The Yellowjackets rally around her as their troops thin, but she hardly notices through the burning of her muscles as she pushes herself to do _more_ , to hit _harder_ , to protect _everyone_ as the shadow of Dalamud grows ever closer.

Yda is out there fighting.

Shtola is out there fighting.

All of her friends, all of her family is _out there fighting_ and she cannot will not fail them here.

Vochstein is a blur of white and purple, of wind and fire as his spells and claws keep bold Kobolds away from her back. The Yellowjackets have learned to respect him, the Kobolds to fear him, and he defends his reputation in this battle yet again. Inappropriately, she is thankful that his scarf has been left behind in their rush to leave the house. It’s one less thing that any beast can grab a hold of, and there are many, many beasts.

The fight lasts bells, the lulls used to regroup and carry away the injured who can be saved. The chain of command is in tatters, the dead too many to count. As undermanned as Aleport is, every loss is devastating, but they pull together and drive off the beasts, even managing a weary cheer that chases their enemies.

And in the wake of the Kobolds, a new danger arises.

She is in the medical building laying down an injured hyuran yellowjacket when Vochstein raises an alarm in huntspeak.

_Foe!_

_Danger!_

_Close!_

He circles her insistently, growing more frantic with every repetition. The Miqo’te in the room jump to their feet, pulling their weapons out as they follow her. At first, she sees nothing. The gates are clear of Kobolds, and there are no swarms of creatures bearing down on them; nothing to warrant Vochstein’s fear.

But then there is a shout of alarm, one that grows as others join.

“The aetheryte! Something’s wrong!”

Her blood runs cold, because she knows what is happening, remembers Shtola and Yda telling stories of a creature named Atomos and the voidsent it summons. She calls the soldiers to arms, screams at civilians to hide, and she even succeeds in saving some of them.

Some.

She is exhausted, her limbs heavy and injuries burning, but she falls upon the voidsent with desperation. Her weapons are gone, left in the medical building, but with no time to retrieve them she is forced to rely on her bare fists and the last dredges of her aether. She doesn’t dare stop as the enemies continue to spawn. There are screams and the echoes of clashing steel, gunshots, and grenades all around her, but they grow weaker with every passing moment.

Her doom comes when she stumbles over the body of a fallen ally. In that split second, a spell hits her back, throwing her into a wall. The pain of the impact leaves her breathless, and the aches of her wounds seem to burn all at once. Eyes unfocused, the entire world slows as she slumps to the ground, stunned. Taking in the carnage, the pleas of children, the fires burning, and the scent of blood, she is reminded of old nightmares; memories of Ala Mhigo. A voidsent appears before her. An imp, with leathery wings and eyes as black as the void it was born in. It grins, sharp rows of teeth bright against the dark of its skin.

Part of her screams at her to move, to fight, but she has no strength left in her limbs, no aether to call upon. Vision growing dim, she drops her head.

_Help here!_

The call breaks through the fog of her mind. There is a scuffle, a flash, and at the edge of her vision she sees Vochstein. He and the voidsent he has rescued her from are tumbling through the air. Towards the aetheryte. Towards the mouth of Atomos.

Fear unlike anything she has ever experienced jolts her out of her stupor, and, desperate, she calls on the only source of aether she has left: the crystal filled with Shtola’s aether.

It isn’t much, but it gives her the strength to stand, to run towards her precious griffin -her _son_ \- and grab hold of him as Atomos begins to suck them into its maw. Without the strength to resist the vacuum, they are lifted off the ground. She hears her name being shouted, and as they are pulled in, as the world distorts around them, as the chaotic aether surrounds them, she holds fast to the feeble connection to Shtola’s aether, to her connection to Vochstein, until the world explodes and she knows no more.

**1572 (2)**

“Shtola, dinner is ready.”

There is no movement from her sister, no acknowledgment that her words were heard. She remains sitting on the bed, staring out of the window and towards the sea. Her eyes catch a necklace wrapped around Shtola’s hand; the one that bore the crystal with Lyse's aether.

Or. Once, it did. Until it shattered the night of the Calamity.

The battles to save Eorzea had been harrowing, yes, but the _personal_ losses are almost too much to bear.

Throat and heart tightening painfully, she sighs and crosses the room with light footsteps.

Gently laying a hand on her shoulder, she says, “Dinner, sister.”

Shtola’s ear twitches. “...Very well." Her sister rises slowly, weary from two straight days of working in Limsa. The battles before the Calamity had been arduous enough, and though none of them are fully recovered, there has been no chance to rest. Limsa Lominsa has been destroyed, as well as much of the rest of Eorzea, and they scarcely had time to bandage their wounds before they were called into the cities to assist with the recovery.

Miheone and the children are serving the last of the plates when they arrive. Sae -as he insists on being called- is at Shtola’s side in an instant. Of the two children, he is the one who was most attached to Lyse and Vochstein, and in their absence he clings all the more to her sister, going so far as to sneak into her -into _Lyse’s_ \- bed with her at night. Far from being dismissive or impatient as she is often is when stressed, however, Shtola sets herself to soothing his fears, and had even given the boy Vochstein’s scarf, which he refuses to part with for any length of time. The poor children have lost so much in their short lives, and the world seems intent on taking more from them.

A year. That was all the happiness allowed them.

They eat in relative silence. All but those present are out, working their shifts in whatever city they have been sent to; helping clear the rubble and count the dead. Less than half of Hahette’s company members have survived the Calamity; fewer still are those left capable of working. R’ashaht, though she is no longer a member of the company, is also alive. She had even earned herself a promotion due to her prowess on the fields of Carteneau.

Only once did she stop by the company house, in order to share with them the details of Aleport that her soldiers reported.

The details of Lyse’s last sighting. The details...of her death.

Lyse’s former lover had delivered the news with great difficulty, her ears flat against her skull as she numbly repeated the words of her soldiers. Voidsent. Chaos. Atomos. Explosion. No body. Shtola listened, still and cold as ice. She had no doubt suspected Lyse’s death when her crystal shattered -Matoya had apparently spelled them to be linked to their individual life force- but having confirmation of it was far, far worse.

The rest of the company fared little better. Though the information that Lyse had been instrumental in protecting the town against the Kobolds, that Vochstein’s early warning and her quick reaction saved countless innocent lives from voidsent soothed some of their pain, there is no denying that all felt their hearts shatter in that moment.

“Shtola, can we sleep?” Sae asks after dinner is eaten and their plates put away. He is grasping her sister’s sleeve, staring up at her with wide eyes.

Shtola manages an affectionate smile, though she can see the corner of her mouth trembling. Yesterday would have been Lyse’s twentieth nameday, and none of them are fully recovered from the emotions the date had wrenched to the surface. “Have you washed up?” At his nod, she gives him one of her own. “Let us rest, then. We’ve a long day tomorrow.”

All are aware that the boy does not sleep, troubled by his nightmares of his parents, of Lyse, of the near destruction of Eorzea, but neither does Shtola. His depression, however, has him seeking the comfort of their bed earlier and earlier in the day, to grieve privately.

She remains at the table when the others all retreat for bed, nursing a cup of tea. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, she is exhausted, but sleep is hard to find and harder to hold onto. Her mind whirls when she stops to take a breath, reminds her of how much she has lost, how much the world has lost, how much work there is to do, how her family has not and may never fully heal from their wounds.

For the first time in her life, she finds that thinking is a curse.

The sound of the front door closing shakes her from her brooding. How long has she been sitting here? Her tea is cold and worthless now, but there are no other indications of time. Her ears keep careful track of the newcomer’s footsteps. They’re light, which rules out Tragzhirn and Hinden. They’re also walking downstairs, and when the boots come into view, she determines that it is Hahette.

“I thought you stayed home today?” her friends asks after greeting her softly.

“I did.”

“And yet here you sit, at first bell.”

FIrst bell? How had it gotten so late?

Seeing her surprise, Hahette smiles mirthlessly and, stopping beside her chair, holds out her hand. “It’s easier with another beside you.”

There are many things she can say about Hahette and how often the woman has someone “beside her” in bed, but she hasn’t even the energy to tease her friend. Instead, she silently takes the offered hand, allowing herself to be led to her room. Her heart races as she changes, as she waits for her friend to do the same, as she is pulled into bed. She scolds herself for her nervousness. She has shared her bed with plenty of others, family or otherwise. This is no different. It _shouldn’t_ be different.

And yet.

Aware of Hahette’s crush, she has always been careful to avoid encouraging any affection beyond friendship. Initially, because she hadn’t been interested -amused, but not interested- then because she saw how casually and quickly Hahette went through lovers. She didn’t want that sort of relationship with the woman who was fast becoming a true friend and a steady fixture in their household. Curled up in her arms, however, a very small part of her regrets that decision.

It would be easy, _so easy_ , to give into temptation and ask for sex as a temporary distraction. She would not be turned down, she is certain, and neither can she say that she has had no previous interest in the idea. On a purely physical level, Hahette is quite the specimen, all lean muscle and confident smirks.

She is giving the idea some serious consideration when the arm around her tightens.

“And to think, I almost didn’t follow that damned kid to your office.”

All thoughts of sex are lost at her words, at the choked laugh and stuttered breath that follows.

_“I brought Carl’s friend with the neat sword! Have you eaten today? I brought snacks.”_

She remembers that day well, remembers Lyse barging into her office with her bright smile and large grin, backpack of food slung over her shoulder and Hahette -so much younger but no less confident- cautiously peering in. It was similar to her first meeting with Lyse; Shtola showing up unannounced after nearly ten years, self-assured and snarky, with Lyse peeking over her shoulder so hesitantly.

Shtola, Yda, Hahette, Raf, Sae, _Eorzea_. All the things important to her, all brought to her by Lyse.

And now she’s gone.

Tears streaming from her eyes, she turns in Hahette’s arms and buries her face in her shirt. There is no Shtola, Raf, or Sae to be strong for. None here that rely on her strength to keep them afloat in their sea of grief. Here, there is only Hahette - a leader equally relied on to be unaffected and focused- who needs someone who can share in her pain without judgement.

 _That_ she can offer for the night, and any other night she needs it, because it will be many, many moons before their pain fades.

If it ever does.

**1572 (3)**

‘... _Shtola and Sae continue to struggle with their grief. I need only a single hand to count the times I have seen my sister truly smile since the Calamity. There is little time afforded to us, however, for anything but sleeping and eating. Though we have made much progress clearing Limsa Lominsa, the same cannot be said for towns in the rest of Vylbrand. I am certain that the Shroud faces the same troubles, so please, remember to pace yourself. Hahette sends her love, as well as the potions provided. They are the last of our stock, but I imagine that they are an improvement over your current supplies.’_

Her eyes linger on the letter before her. She has read it countless times since its arrival a sennight ago, to the point where she can repeat it in her mind at any given moment. There is comfort, however, in having something tangible from home to hold in her hand, and comfort is in rather short supply these days.

“Yda, we should go.”

She shrugs at Papalymo listlessly, but stands up anyway. The Adders always have work for the two Archons, which is a blessing in her mind and a pain in Papalymo’s. Work means she is too busy to think. Too busy to dwell.

Dwelling is not a thing she wants to do. Not until there is enough time for her to truly grieve and rage as she wants.

Spriggans, the Adder commander says when they arrive. In alarming numbers. It’s an odd mission, but the weird little buggers like crystals, and they _are_ Archons, so they agree to investigate, if only out of curiosity. On their way, they make a stop at Bentbranch -which has been turned into a chocobo haven in the two moons since the Calamity- to deliver a package for the Adventurer’s Guild. And Rhalgr, does it _smell_ like a chocobo pen.

‘ _Lyse and Vochstein would love this_.’

The thought arises unbidden, and she flinches, looking away from the birds. Suddenly, their chirps and whistles are too reminiscent of Vochstein, the cooing of the handlers too much like Lyse’s.

“Let’s get those feathers cleaned.”

_“...before Shtola gets here. We don’t need her to find out we snuck out while I’m sick.”_

“Now, now. You know you can’t have those.”

_“You know what Mhitra will do to you if you mess up her papers again!”_

“You’ve earned your rest today!”

_“Wait until we show Mhitra how well you’re doing!”_

She stands there, frozen and struggling to breathe as memories of her sister assault her. It’s too much. It’s all _too much_.

“I’m going ahead. You can get anything we need.”

She is gone before Papalymo has a chance to protest, and she almost feels guilty for it. Fleeing the village, she finds a nice clearing with a log to sit on far away from chocobos and people. She’s shaking, she realizes numbly, and somehow she has started crying.

‘ _There’s no time for this. There are beasts to fight and cities to rebuild. Crying can come later_.’

But the tears don’t stop, just like every other time she allows herself to think of her sister.

She wants to scream at the gods, at the world, about the unfairness that is Lyse’s death. So _young_ , so full of life. How could Lyse die and she live? How could the world force her to endure the loss of the last of her family, after she had finally learned to appreciate her? Why? Why why _why why why_?

Attempting to rub her eyes, her hand hits her mask. It’s a small spark of irritation, one tiny annoying thing that can be easily fixed, but white hot rage overwhelms her because _everything is going wrong_ and before she knows it she has ripped the mask off and thrown it away. There’s a crack, a noise that sounds suspiciously as if it has been broken by whatever it has hit, but she barely hears it over her scream of anger.

She doesn’t care.

She just. Doesn’t care.

“This is no place for a breakdown, Yda,” Papalymo says, voice compassionate in spite of his words. His words startle her. She doesn’t know how long he has been there, or how long _she_ has been there.

Her dear friend holds out her mask, which now has a piece missing on the left side, and a crack that extends from the broken section to the edge of the right side. It's a shame, for she has had that mask throughout her years as an Archon.

"Leave it."

Her words surprise them both, but she doesn't take them back. That mask had served its purpose; hiding her face during the years when she refused to accept how _tired_ she was, how she started to doubt her place and purpose in the Resistance. She had no time to be tired, or weak, or unsure of herself back then. Not with the other refugees, or her fellow Resistance members, or the haughty Sharlayans watching -judging- her.

Not with _Lyse_ watching her.

But the refugees and the Resistance have long trusted her, she no longer cares about Sharlayans and their isolationist ways, no longer has a sister to be strong for.

It takes all the mental strength she has to slow, then stop her crying; to wipe the tears from her eyes and give him a nod, silently affirming her decision. Talking is too difficult, and she feels sluggish from exhaustion, but she knows that by the time they arrive at their destination she will be back to pretending that her world hasn’t fallen apart once again.

Papalymo stays close to her through the mission, and afterwards. She wonders if he wants her to take comfort in his presence, maybe in his arms. He is her partner, her friend, and has been her closest companion for years, yet she cannot bring herself to lower her walls, to let him in.

Yet another thing she feels guilty for, lately.

Their investigation is meant to be quick, two bells at most. As with most things, their luck decides otherwise, and a slip into a muddy cave populated by Spriggans leads to much cursing, running, and fighting. The Adder who takes their report does not hide his concern at their appearance, or his amusement when they curtly explain the slip-up that led to it.

“There’s no harm in letting the buggers eat the crystals. So long as the woodwailers keep an eye on them, we’ve no reason to be alarmed. Other than that there are far too many of them,” she says as they settle for dinner, freshly washed and in new clothes. Too tired to eat out at one of the nicer restaurants, they had decided to take their meal at the noisier but closer Carline Canopy, the tavern below the inn.

When she gets no response, she swings around to stare at her partner. “Is something the matter?”

He starts, blinking and shaking his head. “No. I...” Pausing, he stares down at his plate. “It’s nothing. We ought to turn in, after this.”

His attitude is unusually somber, and he remains lost in his thoughts for the rest of the night. The urge to question him rises, but when she remembers her own hesitancy to discuss her pain, she forces herself to leave. Something is wrong between them. She knows it, deep in her heart, but how can she ask him to confide in her when she refuses to return the favor?

Crawling under the covers, she wishes for the millionth time that Mhitra is here to talk to. She has never been good with her own emotions, much less those of others.

**1572 (4)**

“So what manner of trouble am I to expect this time?”

The Flame soldier serving as his escort gives him a smirk. A tall fellow with a long scar on his cheek, he is one of the few who walked away from Carteneau in one piece. The large axe resting next to him and the hand that perpetually rests on it leave no doubt that it had been skill and not luck that served him well that day. Or perhaps it was a healthy dose of both.

“The traffic to Drybone has increased a hundredfold, and we're being sent to secure the path,” the soldier says dismissively.

Drybone, is it? That doesn't surprise him. Between the battle at Carteneau, voidsent wantonly spawning in towns, and beasts invading the city itself, it was only a matter of time before the city morgues filled. The Church that overlooks Drybone is the only option that would have been left to most of Ul’dah’s residents.

“No offense to your pleasant company, but I am not typically sent out on patrol missions,” he says pleasantly. He truly doesn’t mind the mission. On the contrary, the mundane nature of a patrol mission is quite agreeable. That there are no catastrophes to demand his presence is a first; he has been traveling through all of Thanalan in response to such things in the three moons since the Calamity.

“The soldiers situated in Drybone also sent in reports of unusual beast tribe movements.”

He shrugs and internally sighs. Of course it is a beast tribe that is causing trouble. The soldier gives him a proper briefing on the trip, as well as updates from other areas he has helped previously. Of special concern are the imperial movements that General Aldynn and his Flames can do nothing to route.

The Drybone area more than earns its name. Even when the rest of Eorzea cools, the heat of Eastern Thanalan persists. Vegetation is scarce, what little there is browned by the strength of the sun’s light, blending into the surroundings. The road to the camp is well traveled, fresh ruts and tracks worn into the dirt due to the flood of people coming to bury their loved ones.

He parts ways with the soldier before the camp is in sight, preferring to investigate the Amalj’aa himself. Bells of searching, however, reveals no signs of impending beast tribe invasions. There are some concerning leftovers of voidsent, but no immediate danger. Relieved, he makes his way to the camp. With all the trouble in Eorzea, the last thing he wants to contend with is more primals. He’s had his fill of them, after the Calamity.

The stars and and moon light up the sky by the time he arrives, and a blessedly cooler breeze winds through the land. Though in desperate need of a drink and a bath, he forces himself to delay his rest and report his findings.

“It seems Drybone too was victim to an Atomos attack,” he remarks to the guard patrolling the town’s -a word he uses very lightly indeed- center.

The Lalafellin guard cringes, nodding his head toward the weapon and spell marks that litter the ground and walls near the aetheryte. “I heard stories about the appearance of those creatures in other towns. We were lucky. The one that appeared here was already wounded. Turned our aetheryte orange like the others, but came with fewer friends than other towns reported. Not sure about the story of its wounds, as the woman it spit out hasn’t so much as twitched.”

His shock is so great that his smile drops and he stares at the man in abject disbelief. “Spit out? A woman? That’s impossible.”

With a shrug, he is directed to the inn, where presumably the woman is being kept. “If you manage to wake her up, gives us a holler. And watch out for the magicked griffin. Damned thing has a nice sharp set of claws on it, and it knows how to use them.”

_A griffin?_

_Spit out of Atomos..._

In the time it takes him to blink, the information settles in his mind. Hope blooms in his chest as he foregoes all dignity and rushes to the inn. The innkeep is quick to stop him, claiming that only the healers are allowed in.

Biting back his frustration, he clenches his jaw and says, “I apologize for the intrusion but you must understand, I _have to see her_.” The urgency in his voice sways the innkeeper's will, and she concedes with a sigh, opening the door for him.

Even from the entrance, with the woman barely visible in the little light streaming in from the hall, the blonde hair and face so similar to Yda’s seals his suspicions. It is the griffin -once pure white but now stained with blood and burn marks- resting on the woman’s stomach that settles the matter. There is a warning chirp, and the griffin stretches his wings slowly, ready to defend his master as glowing blue eyes follow his every move intently.

Approaching slowly, he says soothingly, “At ease, Vochstein. You both shall be home soon. Home to Yda, and Y’shtola.”

The wings retract at the mention of his family and Vochstein whistles sadly, resting his head on Lyse’s heart.

Kneeling at the bedside, he gives the familiar a comforting rub. He can feel his worry, his weariness. All this time, Lyse Hext has been here in Thanalan, while her family and his dear friends mourn her passing and struggle to find their footing in a world without her. “You have done well in keeping her safe, but you no longer have to do so alone. We’ll fix this. You have my word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY DON'T HATE ME. I promise she's alive and mostly fine. I wanted to make you all cry before Christmas, so I rushed to get this one edited and out. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
